Healing
by FeliksLukasiewicz00
Summary: Feliks, Toris, Arthur, Francis, Alfred and Matthew are all haunted by the horrors they faced in WWII. But they all desperately lean on each other for help so they can keep a hold of their sanity, and forget about the nightmares that haunt them. (Rated M for violence and swearing)
1. Goobye Home

_Goodbye, Home_

 _Dunkirk, France_

The sea was calm, although the young Frenchman had his back to it. He was currently sitting on an empty box that used to hold supplies. Francis sighed, running a shaky hand through his dirty, blonde hair. The men around him were discussing their fate, whether or not it was caused by a German bullet, failing an attempt to swim across the English channel. But Francis decided to tune it out, all it would do was worry him more. What the real question was, why did the Germans stop their attack? They had the French outnumbered and basically surrounded.

Francis leaned forward with a groan, bracing his elbows on his knees, and holding his chin up with his hands. He glanced down at the ground at his feet, where his saw his rifle resting, then he looked up at the stars above him. "I'm going to die here, aren't I?" He mumbled to himself. But no one seemed to notice his words. The young blonde closed his eyes and looked down again. "Fine, I'd rather die for my country then surrender." He whispered.

About an hour passed, and Francis grew impatient. What were the Germans waiting for? The sound of the waves behind him changed, but he paid no attention to it. It was just the waves, right? But everyone seemed to grow excited and went jogging to the sea. So, Francis stood and turned around. It wasn't just waves, but it was the British and their ships. Not only ships, but practically anything that could float. Francis knew exactly what was going to happen. The British would arrive, the French would run onto their ships, and Germany would annex France. Francis shook his head in disapproval. He wasn't going on any of those damn ships. He'd rather die for his country then run away like a coward.

The ships arrived with ease, but why the hell wasn't Germany attacking those ships? British troops came running off the ships, telling the French that they're here to rescue them like the French were some kind of damsel in distress. Francis saw a young blonde come jogging in his direction, so he crossed his arms in anger.

"I'm not going anywhere." Francis stated firmly.

The Brit stopped in front of him with a scowl. "Oh, you speak English?"

"Well, I just spoke it." Francis snapped.

The soldier looked up at him. "And you said you're not coming?"

Francis glared at the thick-eyebrowed Englishman. "No, this is my home and I will fall with it."

The Brit blinked at him, before straightening his posture and holding out his right hand. "Honorable. Well it was nice meeting you, Frenchman."

Francis raised an eyebrow at the blonde. He had expected to get into an argument with the teen, but instead he respected Francis' decision. "Nice meeting you too, Englishman." Francis outstretched his right hand and shook the teenagers.

The soldier pulled Francis towards him and bent down, putting Francis across his back, and grabbed him by the leg and began to carry him towards the ships. "I was told to save as many of the French soldiers as possible, and your stubbornness isn't going to stop me from doing my job!" The Brit exclaimed.

"What the-? Put me down!" Francis yelled. But it seemed the young blonde had ignored him until they were on the ship. Francis tried to dash off the ship, but the teen caught him by the shoulders.

"You said you wanted fall with France, correct?" The man asked quickly.

"Of course I do! France is my home!" Francis yelled.

The English soldier continued to hold onto his shoulders. "But why die in it's fall, when you can survive and help retake it?"

Francis stared down at the young blonde's green eyes for a moment, before relaxing and taking a few steps to the right. He leaned against the railing of the ship and stared at his country that he just abandoned.

"I could imagine that leaving your home is hard." The teen said in a soothing tone.

"I feel guilty." Francis mumbled.

The Brit stood next to him, and stared at the now fallen country of France. "Don't, because someday, we'll retake France."

"What if I don't live that long?" Francis asked, looking over at the British soldier.

He shrugged. "You never know. But if you don't, then all of the fighting that you did will be leading up to that cause."

Francis looked at the short haired blonde. How was he in the army? He looked no older than fourteen. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen." The green eyed teen stated.

"Sixteen?" Francis exclaimed, "I thought the you had to be at least seventeen."

The Englishman narrowed his eyes at something in the distance. "The army is desperate. Also my birthday isn't too far from now. How old are you?"

"Nineteen." Francis replied.

"That's not too much older."

Francis raised his eyebrows. "Well at least I'm a legal adult."

"At seventeen I wouldn't be a legal adult." The Brit stated, crossing his arms.

"What rank are you?" Francis asked.

The sixteen year old scowled. "Oh, I'm a sixteen year old general." He said sarcastically.

"What's your name?"

The Briton gave Francis a suspicious glance before answering. "Private Arthur Kirkland."

"It's nice to meet you, Arthur," Francis stated, before placing his hand on his chest, "I am Private Francis Bonnefoy."

Arthur gave a nod, before turning his head and staring.

"What are you looking at?" Francis asked.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "The German troops. Why aren't they attacking?"

"Maybe they don't want to anger you." Francis joked, "No one wants to come face to face with an angry Brit on the battlefield."

Arthur chuckled, but continued staring.

"Relax, if they didn't shoot at you earlier, they won't now." Francis said, giving Arthur a small playful shove toward the railing of the ship.

Arthur inhaled quickly, gripping the edge of the ship tightly, and stared at the water below in fear.

"What? What's wrong?" Francis exclaimed.

Arthur sat up and took a step away from the railing. "Nothing, you just took me off guard. I wasn't paying attention, that's all." He said quickly.

Francis narrowed his eyes suspiciously and raised his right eyebrow. "You're lying."

"Just drop it." Arthur ordered, still staring at the dark water in horror.

Francis shrugged. "So, you have any family?"

"W-What?" Arthur stuttered.

"Any family?"

"Three older brothers, and a younger brother." Arthur said awkwardly.

Francis nodded. "Any of them fighting?"

"My oldest."

"What's his name, just in case I run into him?" Francis asked.

"Run into who?" Another British soldier asked, walking up.

"You." Arthur snapped at the red haired soldier.

"So you were talking about me?" The man said, an unlit cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. "Bragging about how amazing your oldest brother is?"

Arthur scoffed. "No, I was just about to tell him how much of a git you are."

"So this is your brother?" Francis asked.

Arthur rolled his eyes at his ginning brother. "Yes."

"Officer Alistair Kirkland." The redhead informed, still smirking. "What's your name, Frog?"

Francis frowned at that last part, but still answered. "Francis Bonnefoy, and was the 'frog' remark necessary?"

"This is the British Army, Frog, I say you'd better get used to it." Alistair replied.

Francis nodded awkwardly.

"So, Arthur, you alright? The sea's not scaring you too much?" Alistair asked.

Arthur scowled. "Of course it isn't!" He snapped in hatred. "Don't you have something better to do than bother me?"

"Actually, I do. So I guess I'll see you later, Art." Alistair walked off, maneuvering through the crowd of British and French soldiers with ease.

"So," Arthur began after a few awkward moments of silence, "that was my brother."

Francis nodded again before looking back to his country. He could barely see it, it seemed so small. He sighed before turning around and resting his back against the railing. He glanced to the private beside him, who was once again looking at the country they were leaving. It seemed like he had calmed down, and actually looked at peace. Francis had to give the teen credit, he was kind of attractive. _Maybe he's…_ Francis shook his head, _no, what are the chances I meet another bisexual?_

"What's one of your biggest secrets?" Francis mentally kicked himself. Why the hell would he ask that? He just begged that Arthur didn't hear it.

Arthur gave him a strange look. A mixture of emotions built up in his emerald eyes. Anger, confusion, peace, fear. "Why?" He questioned.

"I don't know." Francis shrugged, "You don't have to answer."

Arthur held his gaze, his emotions changing until they were unreadable. He glanced down at the water that looked black in the darkness of the night. "You won't tell anyone, right?"

"I promise I won't." Francis replied quickly, some hope rising in his chest.

Arthur leaned forward and spoke in only a whisper. "I can't swim."

For some reason, Francis didn't believe that that was Arthur's biggest secret, but he played along. "So that's why you freaked out when I pushed you."

Arthur nodded. "What about you?"

Francis froze. It's not like he could tell him that he was a bisexual. So he went with something else. "I've never had a first kiss."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "That's it? You're nineteen, not every guy gets a girl in highschool."

"Have you had a first kiss?" Francis asked.

Arthur shook his head. "No."

"Wait a minute," Francis began, lowering his voice so only Arthur could hear, "if you can't swim, why are you a part of the navy?"

"I'm not, I'm a part of the army. It wasn't only the navy that came here." Arthur replied, cautiously resting his arms on the railing of the ship, and stared off at where the German troops would be if you could still see them.

"So," Francis said, breaking a silence that existed between the two for a few moments, "that's England?" He finished, pointing.

Arthur looked over at his shoulder to the country that was appearing in sight. "Yes." He turned back to France.

"Why don't you look at your home?" Francis asked.

Arthur didn't look away from the horizon he was staring at. "I'm paranoid. I'm making sure the Germans aren't attacking us from behind."

"I think you should calm down. They aren't attacking us. If they were planning on it, they would've back by France where they weren't as close to English reinforcements."

Arthur shrugged, but didn't change the direction he was facing. Francis sighed before turning back to the country that was quickly growing larger on the horizon. He smiled. Yes, he wasn't in France, but maybe this wouldn't be too bad... Francis had always wanted to go to England.

* * *

Alistair is Scotland, just in case you didn't know.

 **Here's the beginning of my newest story, I hope you will like it. Also, please leave reviews, your feedback is appreciated and much needed.**


	2. Bad Luck

**Note: Ivan and Toris are speaking in Russian, but I have it in English so you understand**

 _Bad Luck_

 _The Eastern Front, Russia_

"Run! Run! To the cover! RUN!" Officer Braginsky yelled over the sound of gunfire.

Toris ran as fast as possible, sprinting through the thick layers of snow with ease. He heard grenades go off behind him as he ran, followed by the screaming of his allies. Another explosion went off close by, throwing Toris to the ground with a grunt. He felt someone pull him to his feet, then push him forward. As Toris ran, he looked over his shoulder at a young black haired man with blue eyes as he got shot in the chest multiple times by a Nazi's machine gun. He turned back forward.

Officer Braginsky screamed the same order. "Run! Find cover!"

More screams, more random body parts flying in many different directions from every grenade that went off. Toris could see cover in the distance. He was so close to it. Another close explosion, throwing Toris to the ground again, his right side bleeding from shrapnel. He panted while laying in the snow, but he knew that he was alright, and he had to keep moving. Something landed in the snow only inches away from Toris. A grenade.

He pushed himself to his feet and ran in the direction he was facing, but it didn't really matter. After only a few steps, the grenade went off. The flame almost danced around Toris, burning him and shrapnel cut into his back and legs, as he was thrown into the snow. Of course this was his luck.

He laid in the snow in horrible pain. His body was aching, his back was bleeding, and his ears were ringing. The young brunette saw men run past him in full sprint and others jumped over him. A klutzy soldier tripped over Toris' body, rolling him onto his back. The cold snow actually felt nice on his wounds. His eyes began to get droopy, and his world started to darken, but he could've swore he saw Officer Braginsky kneel beside him, and try to get him to respond.

.

Toris woke from unconsciousness strapped to an iron table in an unknown room. His arms were bound at the wrists, and his legs were bound at the ankles. He was laying on his stomach and his shirt had been removed. Toris knew what was going to happen. This was an interrogation room. But why keep him alive? He was only a private, it's not like he knew very much. He only knew the location of one, maybe two Russian bases, it's not like he knew battle plans. But of course this was his luck. When he got into that explosion, he didn't expect to be captured, he expected to die of hypothermia in the snow while he was unconscious. But of course, the damn Nazi's needed to capture him.

Toris flinched at the sound of the large door behind him opening quickly. He arched his neck to try and get a glimpse of the men who entered. He just begged they weren't wearing the Gestapo uniforms. He let out a relieved sigh when he noticed they were wearing the normal green German uniforms. But there was one problem… Toris couldn't speak German.

The Nazi standing closest to the young Lithuanian began to speak in his native language. Every word that the interrogator said went over Toris' head. Toris let out a quivering sigh. The German stopped speaking and fell silent, waiting for Toris to answer, but he didn't. The Nazi repeated himself, in a harsher, angrier tone, but Toris didn't answer his question. The interrogator screamed, slamming his fist on the table right beside Toris' head, making him flinch.

"I DON'T SPEAK GERMAN!" Toris yelled in fluent Russian.

The Nazi yelled at the man beside him, who was standing in front of the cart of torture weapons.

"English?" Toris asked desperately.

The crack of a whip sounded, and Toris screamed in pain.

"French?" Toris screamed, "I know a little French!"

Another whip, and another scream.

"Polish?" Toris shouted doubtfully.

The whip tore against the Lithuanians back, and he wailed in agony.

.

The young brunette tried his best not to move any of his muscles, for it would hurt his back even more. Toris was unsure if his back was still bleeding, but he was unwilling to twist his arm around to feel the skin because he was afraid of reopening the wounds that would probably scar.

Toris chuckled. "Eduard… Ravis…" He wasn't really sure where he was going with that. Sure, he talked to his best friends all the time… His best friends that he never really understood… His best friends who died what felt like a long time ago. Ravis has been dead for just under a year, and Eduard has been dead for just over two months.

It was strange though. Toris saw people die and families and friendships get ripped apart everyday, but he never imagined that it would happen to him. Toris never imagined he'd see Ravis, a seventeen year old kid, die in an explosion with quick and painful death from shrapnel getting in his lungs and throat… Toris and Eduard held him as he died. Toris never imagined that he'd see Eduard, a 20 year old man, die from collecting three German bullets… Two bullets in his left lung, and one in the gut… He died so quickly, there was no time to get a medic over to try and save him. Toris never imagined that he'd see both of his friends faces grow pale as the life dimmed from their eyes.

Although his friends were dead, he spoke to them all the time. Toris chuckled again. "...maybe I should've taken German classes with you guys all the way back in high school, instead of Polish…" Toris paused to catch his breath, "...maybe I would've been able to save my own skin…" He closed his eyes and focused on breathing. "Goodnight, guys," He mumbled before drifting back into unconsciousness.

* * *

 **A sadder prologue than the first, but this story will start off sad, and get happier.**

 ***~Please leave reviews, your feedback is appreciated and much needed.~***


	3. Somewhere in France with You

**Note: Translations are at the bottom of the chapter**

" _Somewhere In France With You"_

 _Normandy, France_

"I'm going to die… I'm going to die… I'm going to die…" Arthur breathed quietly, his entire body shaking.

"Calm down, Art." Alistair whispered.

Arthur forced his body to stop shaking. "I'm going to die…"

"Arthur," Francis said soothingly, "try not to think like that."

The young British soldier turned his head so he could see Francis clearly. "This is a suicide mission." He concluded.

Francis gave him a warm smile. "We'll be fine, Arthur. We've both survived through a lot, so we can survive this."

"This isn't just a few snipers in abandoned streets in France!" Arthur argued, "This is invading German territory!"

"We have them outnumbered," Lukas began, "our little fake military build up worked."

Arthur jerked his head to the left to look at his Norwegian friend. "That doesn't mean this isn't suicide!"

Lukas looked Arthur in the eye, his face expressionless. "We're not going to die."

"How can you be so sure?" Arthur whispered.

A small smile twitched at Lukas' lips. "Because, after we win back France and win the war, you and I are going to sit down, and share a pot of tea."

Arthur stared at Lukas with a wide-eyed expression.

"I promise I'll survive, if you promise you'll survive." Lukas said.

Arthur blinked. "I promise, Lukas." But Arthur's body began to shake in fear again.

"I'll survive too, Art. You and I will see mum and dad again, right?" Alistair asked, placing his hand on the top of Arthur's helmet.

Arthur nodded.

"Arthur, we'll be fine," Alistair began, "we Kirklands are way too stubborn to die."

"You're right, Allie." Arthur replied.

"Arthur." Francis said in a strange tone.

The young Englishman turned his head to the sound of his name. "Yes?"

Francis leaned in closer and changed his voice to a whisper. " _Je t'aime._ "

Arthur smiled at the Frenchman. "I love you too." He whispered back.

A long silence built on the boat carrying British, American and Canadian soldiers. The sound of gunfire and explosions in the distance grew louder as the ship drew closer to the beach.

"I wish Dracul was here now." Lukas said, shattering the silence.

Arthur looked to the twenty four year old Norwegian in confusion.

Lukas tried to keep his face expressionless, but Arthur could see the pain and fear in his eyes. "He always said that he wanted to be there when we retook France."

Arthur sighed sadly. "I will survive… For him."

"Not for me?" Alistair asked teasingly.

Arthur looked over his shoulder at his brother with a smile, then turned back around.

"Alright men!" Alistair yelled, taking Arthur and every other soldier off guard, "Let's get moving! France isn't going to retake itself!"

Arthur glanced to Lukas, then to Francis, who smiled at him, before jumping off the edge of the boat and into the water below. Arthur's stomach twisted. He can't swim, but he had to keep moving. He peered over the edge of the ship to see Francis standing in waist high water that was… blood red. Arthur jumped, landing in the water that was warm from all of the blood that's been poured into it.

He glanced over his shoulder at Lukas, who had just landed in the water. The Norwegian nodded at him, and Arthur turned back around and followed Francis to the shore. He sprinted as fast as he could through waist-high water, then through hip-high water, knee-high water, ankle-high water, and finally sand.

Arthur watched Francis begin to run to the right, towards cover. The blonde Briton started running in the same direction when he felt piercing pain in his abdomen. Arthur slowed his running as his legs got weak and he let out a cry of pain. He saw Lukas go sprinting by, looking back at him in horror. Francis shared the same look. Arthur fell to his knees as he gripped his abdomen with his left hand, his right hand still holding onto his rifle. He felt the warmth of his blood on his hand.

Someone grabbed ahold of Arthur and drug him to cover to the left of Francis and Lukas. Now lying in the sand, Arthur looked up at Alistair who had brought him to shelter.

"Dammit!" Alistair yelled, glaring in the direction of the German soldiers.

"I'm sorry, Allie-"

Alistair didn't allow Arthur to finish his apology. "Don't apologise, it those fucking krauts fault!"

Arthur grunted in pain, pressing his hands onto the wound, trying to keep his blood in his body.

"Move your hands, let me see." Alistair ordered, forcing his voice to sound calm.

Arthur did what he was told, and lifted his hands that were already covered in his blood.

"Bollocks!" Alistair concluded, "Did it go through your back?"

Arthur shrugged. "I don't know."

"I'm going to sit you up a little, okay?" Alistair explained.

Arthur nodded, holding his breath and preparing himself for pain.

The red headed officer tucked his hands against Arthur's back and lifted him slightly. Arthur winced in pain. Alistair set him back on the ground with a sigh. "The bullet's still in you."

"Great." Arthur choked out sarcastically, holding back another scream of pain. He turned his head to the left where Francis and Lukas were bent behind cover. The blonde Frenchman was peeking around the corner, before he went sprinting over to Arthur, through crossfire, as Lukas yelled something at him.

"What the hell, Bonnefoy?" Alistair yelled.

"I had to see him!" Francis argued.

Alistair threw his right hand into the air with a shrug. "The French are crazy!" He yelled.

"Francis, I'm fine." Arthur reassured.

"You're fine?" Francis asked, "You have a bullet in you, Arthur!"

"I'm fine." Arthur stated stubbornly. He scowled when he noticed a dent in the top of Francis' helmet.

"What?" Francis asked.

"This." Lukas said, almost appearing out of nowhere and tapping the dent on the frog's helmet.

"Norwegians are crazy!" Alistair added.

Francis chuckled nervously.

"You're one to talk, Lukas?" Arthur asked angrily, "Your neck is bleeding."

Lukas raised his hand to the side of his neck, then rubbed the back of his neck. "It's just a cut on the back of my neck, Arthur, I'm fine."

Arthur coughed. "You need to keep moving. All three of you."

"What?"

" _Quoi?_ "

" _Hva?_ "

"Like you said, Allie," Arthur paused to catch his breath, "France isn't going to retake itself."

Alistair stared at him.

"I'll be fine." Arthur reassured.

" _Du lovet at vi ville ha te etter krigen._ " Lukas replied, pointing.

"We will." Arthur replied with a weak smile.

"You promise you'll still be here?" Francis asked fearfully.

Arthur looked to his love. "Only if you promise to come back."

Alistair didn't say anything. He just stared down at Arthur with a hurt and guilty expression.

Arthur's small smile turned larger. "I'll be okay, Allie… I promise."

"You live through this, got it?" Alistair ordered.

"I will." Arthur replied, "Besides, we Kirklands are way too stubborn to die."

Alistair chuckled. "Come on, you two. Let's keep moving."

"Keep pressure on that wound." Lukas ordered.

"Don't worry, Lukas, I will." Arthur reassured before the three ran off, leaving Arthur alone. He waited until they were out of earshot before allowing himself to react to the pain he was in. He's never felt this kind of pain before. A cut from a bullet grazing him, or the pain of shrapnel getting lodged into his body was nothing compared to this agony. Arthur cried out in pain. He began to feel lightheaded, and Arthur knew what that meant. Unconsciousness followed by… Death… He had to stay awake. But how?

"Your surroundings, Arthur. Look at your surroundings."

He followed his own order and glanced around. He looked toward the beach where he saw blood red waves moving back and forth. Men getting shot and falling into the sea before they ever touched land. Some were only half way out of their boat when they were shot dead. Others jumped out of their boats too early, and fell into deep water, resulting in drowning due to their heavy packs. Arthur looked away from the sea and to his right. An explosion went off in his view and some men went flying, some lost limbs, and others were incinerated on contact of the flame.

"Okay, maybe not your surroundings." Arthur concluded. "What else? Oh, recite something, you read all the time… Poetry, you know poetry."

But Arthur could think of nothing.

"Songs, you know some songs… It's not like anyone would hear you sing anyway. You can barely hear yourself." Arthur trailed off, thinking of one that he didn't know that well, "What's that one Francis is always bloody singing?" He asked himself. The first thing that came to mind was the French national anthem, which Francis did sing all the time.

A smile crossed Arthur's face when he remembered the song. A short little song that that Francis loved to sing to keep his sanity on the battlefield. Maybe this song could save his life.

" _I meet a someone each day, Who's never sad, who's always gay…_ " Arthur cut himself off by falling into a coughing fit. He let out a quivering breath, trying to breathe through the pain.

" _I know she's acting a part, You can see what... goes on in her... heart,..._ " Arthur paused, wincing in pain.

" _There are two eyes, such blue…_ " Arthur forgot the rest of the line. He thought hard, and eventually remembered.

" _There are two eyes, such blue eyes, a-smiling at me… Yet, they're... lonely... as only... a woman's can be…_ "

Arthur was thrown into another coughing fit, but the pain in his abdomen was better than earlier. His ears were ringing, and his sight was going dark, and Arthur knew what that meant.

" _For I see all h-er th-ought-s are some-where... S-ome-where in France with... y-you…_ "

Arthur knew he was fading out, but he had to keep trying. He had to live. He promised he would. " _While she-she's talking, she-'s ta-talking of no one... but…_ "

* * *

 **Translations:**

 _Je t'aime (French)- I love you_

 _Quoi (French)- What_

 _Hva (Norwegian)- What_

 _Du lovet at vi ville ha te etter krigen (Norwegian)- You promised that we'd have tea after the war._

Credit of the song "Somewhere In France With You" that Arthur sang goes to Al Bowlly (1939) according to my research. Nevertheless, I do not own this song.

Dracul is my headcannon name for Romania. The name Dracul is Romanian for "Devil" or "Dragon".

 ***~Please leave reviews, your feedback is appreciated and much needed.~***


	4. Hope

**Note: When I write Alfred and/or Matthew speaking, they are actually speaking French, but I wrote it in English so you understand**

 _Hope_

 _France, 1945_

Alfred's stomach growled as he sat on the sidewalk leaning up against a random building that had no meaning to him. He tried to ignore his hunger, but it got worse with each passing day. He was tired, and he wanted to sleep, but he knew he had to eat first. He heard the sounds of people talking, all of them speaking French, and they barely had anything to spare, even for a couple of kids. The French couldn't spare food, nor could they spare much money. Maybe it was due to all of the fighting that happened.

"Why are we even here?" Matthew asked quietly in a disappointed voice.

Alfred turned his head to his twin brother. "For food."

Matthew sighed. "We're not getting any food, Al. No one has anything to spare for us."

"Yes they do, we just have to ask the right people." Alfred argued, forcing a smile on his face, trying to give hope to his brother.

Matthew closed his eyes. "Why won't you just let me go to sleep?"

"Because," Alfred began, "we used to always eat before bed."

"That was before mom and dad died, Al."

"We always eat dinner before bed." Alfred emphasized.

Matthew dipped his head, his dirty, long hair falling in his face. "So dinner is just a half loaf of stale bread we find in an abandoned house?"

Alfred blinked at Matthew. "Mattie, that was one time."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "Just let me sleep, Al. I'm tired."

"No, c'mon." Alfred ordered, grabbing Matthew's wrist and pulling him to his feet.

"Now where are we going?" Matthew asked.

"We're walking around." Alfred stated firmly.

Matthew sighed again.

Alfred marched around the train station, searching for someone who looked like they had money. Someone that would be in nice clothes, or wearing nice jewelry. The young boy's hope began to die when he saw everyone in cheap clothing, and cheap jewelry. None of these people had the signs of a wealthier person.

" _Why must you always sing that blasted song?_ "

 _English!_ Alfred thought. He knew very little of the English language, but he could always recognise it.

" _I like the song, let me sing it._ "

"Matthew!" Alfred exclaimed, pointing at the two men in the distance who were speaking the foreign language.

"What?" Matthew asked irritably.

"Listen, they're English! That means they have money!"

Matthew blinked at his twin. "Why would that mean they have money?"

Alfred faked a smile. "All English people are rich, right?"

Matthew shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why can't you just let me sleep?"

"Because, we're going to go ask those people for food." Alfred ordered.

"But, Al, I'm tired."

"Mattie," Alfred began in a pleading voice, "we haven't eaten in a week."

"And we're not going to eat tonight, Al. No one has anything to spare for us."

Alfred's smile dropped. "You don't have to say anything, all you need to do is stand there with me."

Matthew didn't reply, he just stared at the ground.

Alfred's stomach growled, and not much later, he heard Matthew's mimic the same sound. "We're asking them." Alfred stated stubbornly, grabbing Matthew's wrist and dragging him towards the men.

The young blue eyed boy jogged up to the closest man, a tall man with bright, long blonde hair. Alfred tugged at the man's pant leg and he turned around with a surprised expression.

"Oh, hello!" He exclaimed, "What can I do for you two? Are you lost?"

The man was speaking fluent French. Alfred lowered his eyes a little in disappointment, but he had to ask.

"Francis." The other blonde haired man said in a strange tone.

Alfred ignored the other man who had short, shaggy hair. "Do you have any food or money to spare? My brother and I are very hungry."

The long haired adult's eyes grew sad and he squatted down to Alfred's level. "I'm sorry, we don't have any food with us, but we might be able to spare you some money."

Alfred's face brightened up at the thought of the money. They could buy food. He glanced to Matthew, who looked like he was about to fall over from exhaustion. They were going to buy and eat some food, then they'll go to bed.

Alfred sighed. "Thank you, sir." He forced another smile on his face, but it probably looked fake. Alfred looked back up at them. The man with the shorter hair was glancing from Alfred, then to Matthew. The young boy raised an eyebrow at the Englishman.

The short haired Englishman said something to the other.

The long haired adult turned back to Alfred. "One moment, my friend needs to talk to me."

"They can't give us anything, can they?" Matthew whispered in a monotone voice.

Alfred turned his head to his twin. "Cheer up, Mattie, they said they'd give us money."

"By the looks of it, they're not giving us anything." Matthew mumbled with a nod towards the men.

Matthew was right. Alfred hated to admit it, but his brother was right. This has happened way too many times, when the greed for money got in the way of their only meal for the day. But why did he have to be right about _this_? They needed at least money. Alfred sighed, twisting the ball of his bare foot into the ground. He and Matthew had been alone for three years, and he had outgrown his old shoes.

"Boys?"

Alfred looked up at the sound of the unknown voice. It was the short haired man speaking now. "Yes?" Alfred asked, tilting his head.

"My name is Arthur," the blonde began, placing his hand on his chest, "and Francis and I can't give you any food, but we will buy something for you, if you like."

"Buy us something? Like buy food?" Alfred asked, his stomach growling at the thought.

"Yes and no." Arthur said, smiling, "We are getting on a train that's headed to Poland, and we have enough money for two more tickets."

Alfred stared blankly at the Englishman kneeling in front of him. "And?"

"We can buy you and your brother train tickets, and we can take care of you."

"You mean like parents?" Alfred asked.

Arthur shrugged. "Pretty much."

Alfred glanced to his brother, then back to Arthur. "But we're hungry."

"Meals come with the tickets." The other man, who must be Francis, explained.

Alfred and Matthew had been living at this train station for a while now because there are a lot of people that come and go. People that should have a little money to spare for two starving boys. But every time the train doors open, Alfred could smell the food cooking, and it would always make his stomach growl and mouth salivate. And now, he could see it? Taste it? Alfred wanted to yell "Yes! Yes! I'll go with you!", but he couldn't. Not without asking Matthew. Because Matthew was the only person Alfred had. Matthew was the only person that mattered.

Alfred looked to Matthew, then back to Arthur. "So you're asking if we want you to buy tickets for us, so we can move to Poland, and you can take care of us there?"

"Yes." Francis said kindly.

"I have to talk to my brother for a second." Alfred explained, holding up his index finger. Alfred lead Matthew a few steps away to where his twin would be comfortable speaking where he wouldn't be heard. "So, what do you think?"

"I think we should just take the money they offer." Matthew said bluntly.

Alfred threw his arms into the air. "Why? They want to take care of us."

"We don't know them." Matthew whispered.

"So?" Alfred questioned.

Matthew lowered his head slightly. "What if they're mean?"

"But they're nice!" Alfred exclaimed, "If they were mean, wouldn't they have ignored us?"

"None of the mean soldiers ignored us." Matthew argued.

"Not all of the Germans were mean." Alfred stated, "Most of them just shooed us away."

Matthew glanced at Arthur and Francis, then looked back to Alfred. "Some of them hurt us."

"Yeah, but some of them helped. Some gave us money, some gave us food. That one was an angel! He brought you back to life!" Alfred exclaimed.

"No, Al." Matthew began, "He was a funny-looking German who taught you how to stay warm in the winter."

"You're so negative." Alfred said, "Too negative."

Matthew crossed his arms. "I'm not negative, Al, just realistic."

"Mattie, we need to go with them!" Alfred exclaimed.

A scared look appeared on Matthew's face. "But what if they're mean?"

"Then we'll run away." Alfred said like he was stating the obvious, "We know how to live on our own."

Matthew shook his head. "I wouldn't call this living, Al. We won't be able to survive another winter."

"This is why we need to go!"

"So if they're mean, we run away. But then what? I hear it's really cold in Poland." Matthew replied.

"It's cold here." Alfred stated bluntly.

Matthew let out a groan of frustration, rubbing his temples with his fingers.

"Please, Mattie?" Alfred begged, "They might just save us from dying this winter."

Matthew stared at the ground, and hummed as he pondered.

"C'mon, Mattie. You and me have both smelled the food that's on those trains!"

"Don't bribe me with food, Al!" Matthew snapped.

"Please, Mattie?" Alfred repeated.

Matthew dropped his head in defeat. "Fine." He mumbled with a sigh.

"Yes!" Alfred yelled, hugging his brother, "Thank you!"

The young French boys walked back over to the two adults waiting patiently, talking to one another in English.

Alfred walked up, his hands folded behind his back, and stared up at the men with his sky blue eyes. "Excuse me, sirs?"

Arthur and Francis turned their heads to Alfred. "Yes?" They asked simultaneously.

"Is it still okay if Mattie and me come with you to Poland?" Alfred asked, a small, real smile appearing on his face.

"Of course!" Francis exclaimed.

Alfred glanced to Matthew, who was actually looking up at them, instead of gazing at the ground or off in a different direction. Matthew wasn't only looking at them, he was staring at the two older, taller men with judgmental, lavender eyes.

The small smile that had formed on his lips disappeared, but he replaced it with a fake one. "Is this still okay?" He asked in a low voice.

Matthew hesitantly nodded.

"Sweet!" Alfred exclaimed excitedly. He couldn't wait to get on that train and eat that large, warm meal and travel away from the bad memories that France held.

.

"So, what are your names?" Francis asked, breaking a silence in the private train booth that the two adults bought. Matthew wasn't interested in answering the blonde's question, and would rather just fall asleep to the constant repeating sound of the train.

Matthew sighed and turned his head away from the overly happy blue eyed Englishman that was sitting next to him. But, at least Francis was giving him enough space.

"Oh, I'm Alfred!" Matthew's brother exclaimed, answering Francis' question. "And this is my brother-"

Alfred cut himself off, and Matthew knew why. His twin has been trying to get him to talk to other people besides him, but it wasn't really working. Why should he talk? Matthew glanced at his brother, who was staring at him.

Alfred lowered his head with a sigh. "Matthew." He finally breathed in disappointment.

Matthew glanced to Arthur, who was looking down at Alfred with a raised eyebrow. The Englishman was clearly confused on why Alfred paused like he did, but he didn't ask.

"So, Matthew," Francis began, Matthew feeling his blue eyes on him, "how old are you two?"

Francis was obviously trying to get him to talk, but the lavender eyed twin refused to speak. He looked to Alfred with a neutral expression, silently telling him to answer.

"We're ten. We're twins." Alfred answered.

Matthew glanced to Francis, who was staring at him with a concerned expression before he finally looked away. Relief washed over the young boy. Francis didn't ask why he didn't answer, but Matthew knew it was only a matter of time before that question rose. A knock on the booth's door made Matthew jump, before turning his head.

He saw Arthur stand and walk over to the door. "Yes?" Arthur asked.

"Tickets." The man simply stated.

"Oh, right." Arthur replied, reaching into his pocket and pulling out four tickets.

The man with brown hair did something with the tickets, before he handed them back to Arthur.

"When's dinner?" Matthew's twin asked.

Arthur glanced to Alfred, before he turned back to the man. "When is dinner?" Arthur repeated.

Matthew's stomach began to ache for food before it let out a loud growl. He gripped his abdomen with both hands, closing his eyes tightly and clenching his jaw. God, his stomach hurt.

"Two hours." The man said before turning around and walking off.

Arthur closed the door and hummed to himself.

"What is it, Arthur?" Francis asked.

Matthew looked over to Arthur, watching him stare at the ground with his eyes slightly squinted. Without answering Francis, Arthur turned to his bag and started going through it. Matthew glanced to Alfred in confusion as Arthur began to speak in English to Francis.

"Alfred, Matthew." Arthur said, a smile forming on his face as he hid his hands behind his back. "Guess what."

Matthew's eyes widened in fear, his entire body tensing, and his teeth gritting. He breathed heavily through his nose as he stared at Arthur, afraid of what was behind his back.

"What?" Alfred asked naively.

Arthur outstretched his hands, revealing a chocolate bar.

"Sweets?" Alfred exclaimed.

Matthew filled with happiness at the sight. His jaw unclenched and his mouth began to salivate. It's been too long since the last time he had food, let alone chocolate.

"Where did you get that?" Francis questioned, in an almost jealous voice.

"I bought it. Anyway, boys, I think you two should split this. I can't have you waiting two hours until dinner." Arthur explained, unwrapping the chocolate and breaking it in half. "Here."

Alfred took it quickly, eating it almost immediately. "Is this English?"

"Yes." Arthur stated, leaning over to Matthew.

Matthew took the chocolate and brought it close to him, and began to eat it, savoring every bite.

"Thank you!" Alfred yelled.

Matthew lowered his head slightly, allowing his hair to fall into his face and hide his eyes. "Thank you." He squeaked.

Arthur looked over at him with his green eyes, a sweet smile on his face. "You're welcome, boys."

Matthew watched Arthur give Francis a really small piece of the chocolate. He mumbled something in English before he put his own piece in his mouth and leaning back into his seat.

"How is it?" Arthur asked after a few moments.

Matthew nodded in approval of the creamy substance, a large smile crossing his face.

"It's the best chocolate I've ever had." Alfred stated.

Matthew looked up when he realised Alfred had been staring at him. For some reason, Matthew felt like Alfred was implying something by that, but he didn't know what. But for the first time in three years, a slight feeling of hope rose in Matthew's chest. Alfred was smiling. Yes, he smiles all the time, but it was always fake. For three years Alfred's smile was fake, but this time, it wasn't. This smile was true. And it made Matthew happy for the first time in three years.

.

The dinner that Matthew ate was delicious. He had a plate of sauce-covered chicken with rice and some kind of noodle. He hadn't eaten like that in years, and it made him even more tired. He was trying to stay awake, but his eyelids were heavy, and the booth was so warm, and the seat was so comfortable...

Matthew gazed across the booth at his twin, who was already asleep… on Arthur. Alfred was curled up in a ball on the padded bench, lying his head on Arthur's thigh. Arthur was rubbing Alfred's back and shoulder with his right hand as he held his book with the other. How could Alfred just trust Arthur so easily? He met him only hours ago. How could he trust to sleep on him? Matthew sighed before yawning and closing his eyes. He was lying on his side with his knees curled up to his chest. Although Arthur and Francis seemed very nice, he still couldn't trust them.

Even with his suspicion toward the two adults, Matthew couldn't stop his eyelids from drooping until they were finally completely closed. He drifted off into a light doze, but he could've swore he felt something get draped over his shoulders. A coat or blanket? He could've swore he felt something run through his hair. A hand? Fingers? It was probably Francis'. Whatever it was, it felt nice. Matthew allowed himself to sink into the seat and fall asleep to the constant repeating sound of the train.

* * *

 **So now you see some of poor Alfred and Matthew, but you also get to see some cute FACE family.**

 **Please leave reviews! (not to sound desperate, but I can be self-critical, so I want feedback)**


	5. Going Through Hell

**Translations are at the bottom of the chapter**

 _Going Through Hell_

 _Poland_

Feliks had gotten used to the cold. After living in Poland his entire life, he was already used to it, but now he couldn't even feel it. Maybe that was a bad thing. Maybe it was because the constant snow on his skin had shocked his nerves. Whatever the reason was, Feliks couldn't feel the cold. Yes, he could feel the snow beneath his body, and yes, he could feel the wind on his face, but not the cold that came with it. He knew it wasn't because of hypothermia because he hadn't felt the cold in about a year or so. If it was because of hypothermia, he'd be dead.

Feliks had gotten used to the thought of death. The thought didn't scare him, nor did it depress him. Sometimes, it calmed him. And sometimes, he wished death would just come already. Other times, he was glad he was alive. He was glad that he woke up that morning just to prove a point that he wouldn't die easily. That the cold wouldn't kill him. That the beatings couldn't kill him.

Feliks had gotten used to others dying around him. He didn't make friends. He didn't get attached. Because he knew that sooner or later, either he or someone else would end up in that gas chamber, coughing out their lungs as they choked on the smoke. Hell, he even got used to the smell of the small bit of gas that would escape the chamber and wander around throughout the camp.

But Feliks could never get used to the hunger. His stomach was constantly growling and roaring for food that he couldn't get. His stomach would ache from the lack of food, and it felt like knives on his abdomen. He hadn't eaten in just under a week and a half, and he knew he was dying. He knew he didn't have much time. The Nazis had gotten sick of Feliks' attitude, and unbreakable will. It wouldn't surprise him if they let him die.

"Isn't it your turn with the coat?"

Feliks jumped at the sudden sound. Last he checked, the young boy in his arms was asleep. But Peter stared up at him, awake. His eyelids were heavy, and dark stains of tiredness underlined his eyes, but he was awake.

Feliks shook his head. "No, Peter, I took my turn when you were asleep." He lied. Truthfully, he hadn't used the coat all day.

Peter nodded sleepily. "I'm hungry."

Feliks sighed at the words. "I am too, Peter. But, you'll get food."

Peter looked up to Feliks. "What about you?"

Feliks froze. Although he wanted to live just to prove that the Nazis couldn't kill him, he had to put Peter first. He had been for years now. Ever since he saw the nine year old getting yelled at by a Nazi, Feliks had been protecting him. He always had to put Peter before himself. "I don't know, Peter." Feliks replied weakly.

"If I get food, I'm giving it to you." Peter stated firmly.

"What? No. Peter, if you get food, you eat it." Feliks ordered.

"But I ate two days ago, you haven't eaten in a week!" He exclaimed, although his voice didn't grow too loud due to weakness.

Feliks shook his head. "Help yourself, Peter. Put yourself before me."

"But you always help me. Why can't I help you?" The blonde haired boy asked.

"Because you're young."

"So?" Peter demanded.

Feliks repositioned himself in the snow. "You have a whole life ahead of you. You need to live."

Peter raised his eyebrows in concern. "And you don't?"

Feliks smiled warmly. "I'm older, Peter. I've lived life."

Peter sighed and looked to the muddy snow that lined the ground. "Can I go back to sleep?"

"Yes, Peter." Feliks began, looking at the kid kindly, "I'll wake you in about an hour or so."

Peter huddled up into Feliks' torn coat that they'd been sharing. It didn't take long for the boy to fall back asleep, which didn't surprise the Pole, for he and Peter had been able to fall asleep pretty easily. Probably the lack of food and warmth.

Feliks' ears caught the sound of boots crunching in the snow, so instinctively, he turned his head. A Nazi was walking through the snow, scanning his blue eyes over the dying men and women in the area. Most didn't even looked at the soldier, others glanced at him before looking away. But Feliks stared straight up into the man's ice blue eyes. His dark green eyes burned in hatred as the soldier walked by.

"What are you looking at, Polack?" He spat in German.

Feliks narrowed his eyes. Ever since he had gotten to the camp, he disowned the German language from his knowledge. " _Twoje słowa mnie nie boli, Kraut._ "

The Nazi glared down at him. "That doesn't sound like German to me. I thought we said to speak German."

" _Niemiecki kiedyś świetny język, dopóki nie diabły zanieczyszczone go ze swoim złem._ " Feliks hissed.

The soldier started to walk away. "I have better things to do." He said over his shoulder.

Feliks watched him walk off, until he turned the corner, out of sight. Feliks sighed, allowing his body so sink even more into the snow. He stretched his arms out with a yawn, where his tattoo caught his attention. He stared at it for a moment, before quickly lowering his arms, and hiding them in the coat Peter was using as a blanket, as he laid on Feliks' chest. Although he had told Peter that he'd wake him up in about an hour, his eyelids got too heavy to keep open, and the Pole fell asleep in the snow.

.

Feliks' eyes snapped open to the sound of gunfire, but it didn't really scare him. Although it was sad to think, it was probably some random victim getting shot instead of gassed. He closed his eyes again, and tried to fall back asleep. But the gunfire continued, and grew louder, and louder. Feliks reopened his dark green eyes and scanned them over the situation. Nazis were attacking something, and something was firing back.

"Feliks, what's happening?" Peter asked in fear.

Feliks shook his head. "I don't know, Peter. It's the crazy Nazis shooting their guns. They're probably shooting at nothing."

"Oh." Peter mumbled, "Can I go back to sleep? I know I was just sleeping, but can I? Please?"

Feliks shrugged. "Sure." He laid down on his left side in the snow, closing his eyes.

"Feliks?" Peter asked.

"Hm?"

"Do you think it could be…" Peter trailed off.

Feliks reopened his eyes. "Could be what?"

"Help?"

Feliks held back a snort of laughter. No one would be able to help them. "Probably not."

Peter didn't reply.

Feliks didn't want to break the young boy's hope of rescue, that was really the only reason he was alive right now. "Well, maybe. I guess it _could_ be help. Maybe the Russians won back Poland and found us."

Peter looked over his shoulder at the Pole. "You think so?"

"It's possible." _But not likely_ , Feliks added in his head.

Peter didn't reply, but he hummed a happy tune of a popular song from years ago.

Feliks closed his eyes again, not concerned with the sounds coming from the distance. Like he said, it was probably just the crazy Nazis shooting at nothing because they're sadistic psychopaths, who can only go so long without shooting something...

.

 _ **BOOM**_ _!_

Feliks jerked back awake by the sound of an explosion, and a loud one at that. Guns of all kinds were shooting, Nazis were yelling and shooting back. An all-out battlefield broke out in the middle of this concentration camp.

"Peter?" Feliks asked. But there was no response.

"Peter?" Feliks shook the young boy.

"PETER?" Feliks yelled, shaking him even harder. But there was still no response. Feliks placed his index and middle finger on the side of Peter's throat, checking, begging for a pulse. A pulse. A very slow pulse. Feliks sighed and laid back in the snow. The cold was getting to the boy.

He grabbed his coat and wrapped it tightly around Peter, before pulling him closer, and hiding him in his arms. Feliks rubbed the kid's back with his hands, trying to warm him up. He rolled onto his back, keeping Peter on his chest. He had to keep Peter out of the snow. Feliks breathed as heavily as he could on the top of the boy's head, trying to warm him. Feliks' ears began to ring, and his sight went dark. The cold that Feliks could no longer feel must be getting to him too...

.

 _ **Bang, Bang, Bang, BANGBANGBANGBANG-**_ _ **BOOM!**_

" _Сэр, вы проснулись? Сэр!_ "

Feliks woke up to multiple sounds. Gunfire. Machine gunfire. Explosions. The Russian language. A Russian soldier shaking him awake.

" _Сэр!_ "

Feliks opened his green eyes to see a soldier directly above him, and feeling Peter still lying on his chest. Peter was right, it _was_ help. Or this was some strange unconscious dream of his? _Peter_. He was still on Feliks' chest, but was he alive? He reached up a weak hand, ignoring the foreign soldier beside him. He felt a pulse. Barely, but it was a pulse.

" _Вы говорите по-русски?_ "

Feliks had no idea what this man was saying. " _Nie mówię po rosyjsku._ " He whispered.

The man above him stared down at him for a long moment, and Feliks finally realized that he probably didn't speak Polish.

"English?" The soldier asked.

Feliks coughed. " _Tak-_ I mean- yes."

"Okay, good. I am here to help you. Can you stand?"

Feliks thought hard about his question. He could feel his legs, but he probably didn't have the strength to stand, at least not alone. _Always put Peter before yourself._ Feliks remembered. "The boy." Feliks muttered.

"What?" The soldier asked.

"Take him." Feliks ordered, lifting Peter slightly off of his chest.

"Oh!" The Russian exclaimed, "Is he alive?"

"Barely." Feliks answered, "Hurry."

"I or someone else will come back for you."

Feliks nodded at the Russian before he ran off. Frankly, he didn't care if he survived, he just promised himself that he'd protect Peter, and that Peter would live through this. Finally, Peter was safe.

"Sir!" The same Russian exclaimed, kneeling right above Feliks, but his voice sounded far away.

"Sir!" He yelled again.

Feliks felt the Russian began to lift and carry him towards safety. Finally, Feliks was rescued from Hell.

* * *

 **Translations:**

 _Twoje słowa mnie nie boli, Kraut (Polish)- Your words do not hurt me, Kraut_

 _Niemiecki kiedyś świetny język, dopóki nie diabły zanieczyszczone go ze swoim złem (Polish)- German used to be a great language, until you devils contaminated it with your evil_

 _Сэр, вы проснулись? Сэр! (Russian)- Sir, are you awake? Sir!_

 _Сэр! (Russian)- Sir!_

 _Вы говорите по-русски? (Russian)- Do you speak Russian?_

 **A sadder chapter, but finally you get so see what's been going on with Feliks. (By the way, this is my last prologue)**

 **Although it probably sounds like a broken record, please review! I love it when you review!**


	6. A Day in the Life of

_A Day in the Life of…_

Although it had been five years, Feliks was still underweight. He stared at himself in the mirror, only half dressed. He held his red colored shirt in his right hand, sighing at his image.

"Why haven't I been gaining more weight? I've been totally eating like a pig!" Feliks exclaimed.

The Pole sighed again, slipping the shirt over his shoulders and buttoning it up to his chest. He pulled down his sleeves, making sure they came all the way to his wrists. He raised his arms, shaking them, making sure the sleeves didn't fall down. Once satisfied, Feliks strode to his desk, picking up two tight rubber bands, and placed them around each wrist, to keep his sleeves from falling... Just in case...

He hummed a song that he heard from a market radio to himself, as he paced to the front door of his shop. Grabbing ahold of the sign, he turned it until it read "Open", and unlocked the door. Feliks walked to the furthest corner where his lonely, small, broken down mattress sat. He pulled the curtain to the left, hiding his corner from his customers.

It was a typical day at Feliks' little tailor shop. The first few hours were slow, as he worked on projects like making suits or clothes, hemming pants, and easy patch ups. The hours went by, and it was a slow day, but Feliks didn't mind. He was pretty much always in a good mood, and kind of liked the peacefulness of a slow and quiet day.

Feliks heard the sound of the door opening, followed by it creaking loudly. The Pole glanced up at who walked in, a smile growing on his face.

"What'd you rip up this time, Ivan?" Feliks nearly sang as he continued hemming a pair of pants.

Ivan stopped halfway through the door. "If you want me to start going to a different tailor, all you have to do is say so."

"No, no," Feliks began, looking back to the pair of brown pants, "I totally like your company. What do you need me to do?"

"I ripped up my pant leg on patrol."

"Really?" Feliks asked, a playful tone appearing in his voice, "Was it those field mice? Polish field mice are really savage. They'll just rip your ankles off! You're lucky you got away ali-"

"No, Feliks, it wasn't mice." Officer Ivan Braginsky interrupted.

"I don't believe you." Feliks said, narrowing his eyes and smiling.

Ivan let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I'll totally fix them for you." Feliks stated, finishing the hem.

"Thank you, Feliks."

Feliks spun around in his chair, folding and placing the pair of pants on the table behind him "Stressed?" He asked.

" _Da._ "

Feliks smiled, trying to reassure the soldier. "Sorry, I don't know what to say. Usually when I get really stressed out, I, like, lay on the floor and catch a few more hours of sleep, but you can't really do that, can you?"

"No, Feliks, I can't." Ivan groaned.

"I'll totally cover for you if you need me to." Feliks said, pointing.

"That's okay, Feliks," Ivan started, "I probably couldn't sleep anyway."

"Why's that?"

Ivan looked up to the wall above and behind Feliks. He stared there for a long moment before he answered. "Another war might start up."

Feliks froze, his body tensing as he was going through a drawer. "With who?"

"America."

"Oh." Feliks breathed, "Because of the communism stuff?"

Ivan nodded, his purple eyes looking tired at the mere thought. He had just gotten out of a war, and now a new one might start up again.

"How much is it for the patch up?" Ivan asked, cutting into Feliks' thoughts.

"You know what, Ivan. This one's on me." Feliks replied, smiling.

Ivan gave him a surprised look. "Are you sure? You already give me a discount, even though you shouldn't."

The Pole waved his hand in dismissal. "I'm sure, Ivan. I'll cover this one."

"Thank you. I really should get going, though." Ivan added.

"That's fine." Feliks answered, "See ya."

"Goodbye."

The door closed behind Ivan, and the tranquil silence reappeared, and Feliks was okay with that. He hummed again as he started patching up Ivan's ripped pant leg. It continued to be a normal day, just an average Saturday, with very little customers, but just enough to keep the business going. Few people came in, most of them people Feliks recognised from this side of town.

The door opened, it's hinges squeaking at the movement.

.

 _Knock, knock knock._

Toris paced across his living room to his front door and opened it. On the other side was a beautiful woman, who had long, platinum blonde hair. She wore a blueish purple dress, with white accents. Toris had to force himself not to blush at the woman.

"Hello." She said in a thick, Russian-sounding accent.

"H-Hello." Toris stuttered. "What can I do for you?"

"I saw your ad in the paper." She mumbled, her voice monotone.

"My ad? Oh, the one about sharing my house." Toris thought aloud.

"No, the prostitute ad." She explained with a small, devious smile.

"What?" Toris exclaimed.

She shook her head. "I'm joking."

"Oh," Toris breathed, "just to let you know, I can't sense jokes all that well."

"I can tell." She replied.

Toris chuckled nervously. He cleared his throat. "Excuse my manners! Please, come in!"

"Thank you."

The pair walked to the living room, the woman sat on the couch as Toris sat in an old chair. "So," He began, outstretching his hand, "I'm Toris Laurinaitis."

She shook his hand. "Natalia."

"Can you tell me your surname?" Toris asked kindly.

"That information isn't needed." Natalia stated simply.

Toris raised an eyebrow at her. _Maybe she doesn't trust you right now, Toris. Maybe it's because she just met you... Hopefully._ "So, Miss Natalia, what kind of job do you have?"

Natalia stared at him for a moment, almost like she was thinking. "I work at the market."

"Okay," Toris began with an awkward nod, "I clean other people's' houses or shops."

Natalia nodded, staring at him with almost threatening eyes.

Toris gulped. "Uh, why are you wanting to live here?"

Natalia paused. "I recently moved."

"From where?" Toris asked.

"Russia."

Toris tilted his head. "Why?"

Natalia's blue eyes flashed with anger, but she didn't answer.

"Nevermind." Toris said, running his fingers through his long brown hair, "What are some of your hobbies?"

"Knife throwing." She replied quickly, not missing a beat in the conversation.

"Really?" Toris asked nervously, "Are you any good?"

"I haven't missed the bullseye since I was ten." Natalia stated, "Even then, I hit the target in what would be a fatal area on a man."

Toris' eyes widened. Why a fatal area on a _man?_ Why not anyone? Whatever the reason, Toris was getting a bad feeling.

"What?" Natalia snapped.

"Hm? Oh, nothing! I've just never met someone who could throw knives." Toris lied.

Natalia narrowed her eyes.

"How many days do you work per week?" Toris asked, moving on to his next question.

Natalia blinked. "Five. I have Saturdays and Sundays off."

Toris smiled. "You do? Well, at least you have weekends off."

"What's your work schedule?"

"Mine?" Toris glanced up at the ceiling. _Ravis, Eduard... help me…_ , "Oh, my schedule is pretty random."

Natalia stared at him with an intense, cold, glare.

Toris swallowed hard. "I-I can't think of anymore questions right now. I'll contact you if you can live here, okay?"

Natalia stood and made her way to the door. "Fine." She opened the door, walked out, and closed it calmly.

Toris stared after her, yes she was very attractive, but he didn't like the bad feeling that came with her.

.

Feliks looked up to the sound of his door squeaking open, where he saw a man he'd never seen before. He smiled warmly at the customer, who carried a pair of tan pants.

"Hello." Feliks greeted.

"Oh, hello." He replied.

The customer had long, brown hair and beautiful blue eyes. He was a very handsome man, one of the best looking Feliks had ever seen. _You are definitely on my top-ten list, sir._ Feliks thought with a smile. "How may I help you?"

"Well, I'm Toris, and a friend of mine recommended you to be my new tailor. My old one was too far away."

Feliks stood, and walked over to Toris. "I'm Feliks Łukasiewicz," He said, shaking Toris' hand, "and I'm so glad someone recommended me. Am I, like, really that good?"

Toris shrugged. "You must be."

Feliks dropped his hand to his side. "Just wondering, who recommended me? I'll probably know them."

An awkward face appeared on Toris. "Oh, uh, would you know a Tino?"

Feliks snapped, pointing at Toris. "Yes, he's pretty cool."

Toris nodded.

Feliks turned to the clock on the wall. He only had ten more minutes before he would normally close up shop, but he could make one exception, right?

"What's wrong?" Toris asked.

"Oh, nothing." Feliks concluded, turning back to Toris.

"Are you closing? I can come back tomorrow."

Feliks waved his hand in dismissal. "No, I can make an exception, it's fine. What do you need me to do?"

"I can come back tomorrow." Toris stated.

"What do you need me to do?" Feliks demanded.

Toris sighed. "I just need a patch up on the right knee."

Feliks outstretched his hands. "Let me see." He inspected the pant leg, looking at it from a few angles. He felt the cloth by the tear and the seams around it. "An easy patch up. It'll only take a few minutes."

"Are you sure? I can come back tomorrow." Toris repeated.

"Don't worry," Feliks began, waving his right hand, "I got it."

He sat down at his sewing table, turning on the machine. He placed the ripped pant leg beneath the inserted needle, and began sewing.

"Thank you." Toris said.

Feliks smiled. "Hey, I'm a tailor, it's what I do."

"You're working overtime." Toris stated.

Feliks glanced up at Toris. "Speaking of that, it'd be totally amazing if you could go and flip the sign on my door so no one else walks in."

Toris stood. "Oh, sure." He said, walking to the front door and flipping the sign.

"Thanks." Feliks said, "So, how's life treating you?" He asked.

Toris groaned in reply, rubbing his eyes.

Feliks raised an eyebrow. "That bad?"

"I'm not going to trouble you with my problems." Toris concluded.

"Talk to me, sometimes it helps to talk to a random stranger." Feliks persuaded.

The brunette sighed. "My rent has raised just enough so I can't afford the house by myself."

Feliks whistled. "That's rough."

Toris ran his fingers through his long hair. "I need to pay my rent soon, or I'll get evicted."

"What are you going to do?" Feliks asked.

"Well, I'm trying to get a housemate, but everyone I interviewed wouldn't have worked."

A larger interest sparked in Feliks' mind. _Housemate?_ "Why's that?"

"Well, there's one guy who I swear was on drugs. And this woman, who I'm pretty sure would kill me if I let her stay." Toris sighed again, "I'm just getting really desperate."

Feliks stopped sewing, looking at the pant leg, inspecting it to make sure that it would hold together. "How long until you get kicked out?"

"Barely a week." Toris groaned.

 _He's probably really desperate… No, Feliks, don't ask if you can live in his house. You have a roof over your head, you don't need a house._ Feliks cleared his throat. "Well, if you do get kicked out, then you can come here. Yeah, this place is pretty small, but I can make room. A small amount, but it's shelter. I won't even charge you, as long as you're still working."

Toris chuckled. "That's very kind, Feliks, but my neighbors have already given me the offer."

Feliks shrugged. "Just making sure you have a place to go. Oh, an I'm done patching up that hole. There's a small changing room, if you want to make sure it's not, like, too tight on your knee."

"Thank you." Toris said, taking the pair of pants. He glanced around the shop, "Behind the curtain?" He asked, pointing.

"No, that's where my bed is." Feliks replied, "The small room behind you and to the left." He corrected, pointing at the small door.

"Okay, thank you. That would've been awkward if I walked on your bed. You only have that small corner?" The brunette questioned, tilting his head slightly.

Feliks waved him off. "No, I have this whole place, that's just where I sleep." _When I can,_ he added in his head.

Toris nodded. "Oh. Well, I'm going to try these on."

Feliks smiled. "Yes, go do that." The blonde Pole stood and walked off, picking up needles from off his desk and setting them in a small box in the right hand drawer. He grabbed a small pile of clothes, going through them and folding them. He placed them neatly on the table behind him, whistling to himself. He placed a piece of paper with the name of the owner of each item on top of the folded clothes.

"They still work." Toris concluded, walking out of the small dressing room.

"Fabulous." Feliks cheered.

"Hey, Mr. Łukasiewicz-"

"Just call me Feliks." The blonde interrupted.

"Feliks," Toris corrected, "I was thinking."

"About what?" Feliks asked, faking a squeaky feminine voice.

Toris chuckled beautifully. "Maybe I could interview you."

Feliks inhaled quickly. Toris really just said that, right? Although he already had a place to live, Feliks has been feeling cooped up. He never gets out besides going to the market. Feliks smiled largely. "Sure, what would be a good time for you?" Feliks turned and pointed at Toris. "Ooh! I close early on Sundays. How about, six? I'll make dinner and everything."

"You don't have to do that." Toris replied.

Feliks put his right hand on his chest. "My treat, Toris."

"Like I said, Feliks, you are a kind person." Toris started, smiling, "And yes, six will work."

"Amazing!" Feliks sang.

Toris let out a small and quick laugh. "How much for the patch up?"

Feliks opened his mouth to tell his customer, but then he closed it. Feliks clapped his hands together once. "You know what, Toris? This one's on me. You're having money troubles."

"But-"

"Don't try arguing, Toris. Your argument will be futile." The Pole interrupted dramatically.

"You're making me dinner tomorrow, you worked overtime, let me pay!" Toris exclaimed.

Feliks straightened his posture, closing his eyes and folding his hands behind his back. "No. Don't argue with me on this, Toris. Just don't try."

"But-"

"Don't try."

Toris sighed. "Fine, but only if you let me clean your shop for free sometime next week."

"Is the place that dirty?" Feliks asked sarcastically.

Toris shook his head. "Well, no, but I clean houses and shops for a living."

"But I know where everything is." Feliks complained.

Toris crossed his arms. "Then let me pay."

Feliks sighed. "Fine, you can clean." He groaned.

A triumphant smile crossed Toris' face. "Anyway, I should head home."

Feliks smiled. "Yes, go do that."

"I'll see you tomorrow." Toris said, holding his pair of pants and walking to the door.

"Yes, six o'clock." Feliks called after him, before Toris shut the door.

The blonde watched Toris walk off down the road before he locked the door, took a step away, and pumped both fists into the air. "Way to go, Feliks! You might even get to live in the same house as a hot guy!"

* * *

 **Finally, chapter one! :) :D No more prologues!**

 **So in this chapter, you see some of Feliks' attraction towards Toris, along with some daily life from our beloved Polish friend!**

 **(By the way, I really love writing Feliks' character, and it's surprisingly easy.)**

 **Please Review! I love your guys' feedback! :3**

 **~Feliks out!**


	7. Bad Day, Good Day

_Bad Day, Good Day_

Arthur stared down at the dark brown wooden table in front of him. He let out an exhausted sigh. He didn't sleep at all last night, which somehow surprised him. He's usually more tired from working on Tim's ranch all week. But then again, today was _that_ day.

It was the usual routine. Wake up, eat, relax, go to the market, come home, put everything away, and then put the tea kettle on the stove. Francis and the boys knew what to do what to do. They went into the living room, where Arthur could still hear murmurs of chatter from Francis and Alfred. Matthew was probably reading or listening.

Arthur looked up from the table in which he was staring and gazed at the nearly blank wall in front of him. Minutes that felt like years passed before Arthur heard the familiar whistle from the tea kettle behind him. He stood slowly, numbly walked through the kitchen, moved the kettle off the stove and brought it to the table where his teabag and teacup were already waiting to be used. The blonde poured the boiling water into the cup before placing the teabag gently in it, and waited. Again.

Time wasn't slow anymore, but it seemed normal speed. Arthur glanced to the empty chair that sat alone across from him. He fought tears at the sight. He stirred sugar into his beverage before lifting it into the air, in the direction of the empty seat across from him.

He smiled sadly as tears stung his eyes. "To the independence of France..." Arthur mumbled softly, "...Cheers, Lukas…"

He felt a few warm tears roll down his face, and Arthur didn't try to stop it. It was okay to cry, and he knew that. Arthur sipped the warm drink that would usually make him feel better, but today it made him feel even worse. The Englishman lowered his left hand and rubbed his left side where he felt stabbing pain. He knew the pain wasn't real, but the horrible memories forced it back into his mind. Today was June sixth. Today was the anniversary of D-Day.

The pot of tea that he promised he'd share with Lukas became empty as time passed. Arthur had already pushed away the kettle and teacup, leaving an empty space on the table for Arthur to stare at as he rubbed his abdomen. He wasn't crying anymore, but he just stared blankly, zoning out into bad memories. Memories of the last time he ever saw Lukas.

More ghost pain, and Arthur sat up, breathing in a quick breath, rubbing the scar on his abdomen. The green eyed Briton ran his right hand through his hair before standing, despite the pain. He turned around, leaving the empty kettle and cup on the table, and walked to the living room, where his family sat peacefully.

Arthur entered the room awkwardly, and Francis gave him a sympathetic look. Arthur smiled before sitting next to his love, allowing himself to sink into the couch he sat on. Still holding his six year old wound, Arthur picked up the book from off of the side table, and tried to read. And tried to forget.

.

Feliks straightened up his desk, putting his supplies in their specific drawers and shelves. He wiped down the brown desk with a damp cloth before jogging to his back room that his stove sat. He stirred the soup that smelled delightful and made the Pole's stomach growl. He pulled two bowls out of the cupboard to his right and set them beside the stove.

Feliks jogged out of the backroom and to his small corner hidden by a curtain. He pulled back the blue curtain and grabbed his comb. He ran the comb through his thin blonde hair before dropping it down on his mattress and pulling the curtain back into its place. To be honest, Feliks felt like a panicked teenage girl going on her first date, but he didn't really mind. In fact, he'd love to be going on one, but Toris probably wasn't homosexual.

A knock at the door made Feliks jump before speed walking over. "Yes?" He asked, opening it.

"Hey, Feliks." Toris greeted with a smile.

Feliks pointed at the brunette with a smile. "Evening, Toris." Feliks opened the door wider to where Toris could walk in, "Come in."

"Thank you."

Feliks directed Toris where to sit, which was at his desk. The blonde sat in his chair as Toris sat opposite of him. "Dinner's almost ready." Feliks said.

Toris nodded awkwardly.

"So," Feliks began, clasping his hands together, "anything you want to ask now, or do you want to wait?"

"Uh, I'll start now, I guess." Toris cleared his throat, "So, Feliks, what are you like?"

Feliks glanced up to the ceiling, humming in thought. "Well, I'm very quirky, I'll tell you that right now." Feliks smiled, "Uh, I can be forgetful, but not about super-important things… I'm Jewish, fun-loving, weird, and…" Feliks trailed off. He knew what he was going to say, he just didn't want to.

Toris raised an eyebrow at him. "And?" He prompted.

The Pole sighed, closing his eyes. "Please don't judge, but I'm…" _Please don't judge?_ Feliks asked himself. "I'm homosexual." He finished.

Toris stared at him, not changing his expression. "So?" He asked.

That took Feliks off guard. He glanced to his right. "I'm homosexual." He repeated.

"I heard you." Toris answered, "Why were you asking me not to judge?"

"Because I'm homosexual." Feliks stated bluntly.

"I may be heterosexual, but that doesn't mean you can't be happy with who you prefer." Toris explained, "You let me be heterosexual, why wouldn't I let you be homosexual? Respect is a two way street."

Feliks stared at Toris. Heterosexual? _I get to live with a handsome man, and he's heterosexual? The Lord is testing me..._ "You're the first person I've ever heard say something like that. Thank you."

Toris shrugged. "You're welcome."

Feliks stood up quickly. "Food!" He yelled, after smelling that it was ready to be eaten.

Toris gave him a strange look before standing.

Feliks whirled quickly around. "No, Toris, sit. I'll get it, because I'm a gentleman." He explained, placing his hand on his chest and closing his eyes.

"Are you sure? I can get my own."

"I'm positive." Feliks dramatically stated.

"Okay." The brunette said awkwardly before sitting back in his chair.

Feliks skipped into the kitchen and filled both bowls with soup, humming loudly. He walked back and placed the bowls on his desk. "One second," Feliks began, raising his right index finger, "let me get our spoons." He skipped off and retrieved the spoons.

"This looks delicious, Feliks." Toris complemented as Feliks sat back in his chair.

Feliks smiled. "Yeah, I'm just a good cook like that."

Toris chuckled and ate a spoonful of the soup. After a few moments of silence, Toris spoke again. "So, why are you wanting to live in my house with me."

 _Because you're super good-looking_. "I'm feeling, like, cooped up in here, and also I'd love to help you out."

"Have you lived here your whole life?" Toris asked.

Feliks swallowed a mouthful of soup. "Of course. I am one hundred percent Polish."

Toris nodded. "Do you have any hobbies?"

Feliks placed his hands on his desk, leaning back in his chair, making it balance on its two back legs. "No, not really. I mainly occupy myself with work. Most Sundays I have off, but today I totally got a behind on my projects."

Toris glanced up at the ceiling. "You said that you were Jewish," He restated, "are you very religious?"

"Growing up, I kinda was." Feliks explained, "But ever since the war, I haven't been very religious. I mainly just celebrate the Eight Days of Hanukkah."

Toris' eyebrows narrowed as he looked down at Feliks' hands. "Why are there rubber bands on your wrists?"

Feliks froze. _So no one sees the tattoo._ He needed to think of a lie and fast. "Uh, I… I've never really been good at rolling up my sleeves…" He awkwardly answered.

A strange look appeared on the brunette's face before he looked up to the ceiling for a long moment.

The Pole curiously followed his stare to see just a wooden ceiling. "Yeah, my ceiling's pretty great, huh?" Feliks asked teasingly.

Toris chuckled, looking back down to Feliks. "Sorry, I was thinking."

A large smile crossed the blonde's lips. "About what? A cute girl?" _Or guy…_ Feliks added silently.

"What? No." Toris answered quickly, "I was thinking what else to ask. No one has really gotten this far…"

"Right, you told me that." Feliks recalled.

Toris groaned, shaking his head. "You know what, Feliks? I'm pretty sure that you're going to end up living with me. You seem like a respectful man."

"Just to let you know, Toris, I joke a lot." Feliks added. "Once you get to know me well, I will probably fake-flirt with you, but I'll wait until you know me better." _Why did I say that? I just told him that all flirting would be fake. Now I have no chance._

A strange look formed on Toris' face. "Okay, sometimes you might have to tell me that it's a joke because I don't sense jokes well."

"I'll do that." Feliks muttered, looking down at his empty bowl of soup.

Toris began to hum in thought, catching Feliks' attention. "You know what, Feliks?" Toris began, a curious tone in his voice.

Feliks looked up at Toris, who had the most beautiful blue eyes. "What?"

"What would be the best time for you to move in?"

"What?" Feliks exclaimed, "Seriously?"

Toris shrugged. "Like I said, you seem like a respectful man, I think we'll get along. Also I'm desperate here."

Feliks chuckled. "Anytime works with me, all I need to do is put a sign on my door."

Toris glanced up at the ceiling again. "How about Tuesday?"

"Tuesday sounds fabulous."

"Four o'clock?" Toris asked.

Feliks nodded. "Four works."

"Well, thank you Feliks." Toris began, "The dinner was delicious, and it was nice to get to know you better. I'm sorry, but I should get home."

Feliks stood, inviting Toris to stand as well. "Don't be sorry, it's totally fine. I'll see you Tuesday."

Toris began to walk out. "Yes, I'll see you then." He grabbed the door handle and began to turn it.

"Oh, wait!" Feliks remembered.

Toris looked at him over his shoulder. "Hm?"

Feliks stood there awkwardly for a moment, staring at Toris. Feliks sighed. "By the way, I should've told you this earlier, but I… I get…" _Holocaust flashbacks?_ Feliks thought. No, he had to reword that. "...night terrors." He finished.

"Night terrors? You mean extreme nightmares?" Toris asked.

"Well… nightmares." Feliks corrected. "I don't know why, though. It's something I've had since childhood."

Toris smiled. "That's fine, Feliks, it doesn't change anything."

"I just wanted to warn you."

"Thank you. Goodnight, Feliks." Toris said.

"Goodnight."

* * *

 **Sorry that this chapter took so long to make, school, life and writer's block got in the way.**

 **~Feliks out (^J^)**


	8. Nightmares and Silence

_Nightmares and Silence_

 _Alfred sat in front of the radio with Matthew, listening to the music that came from it. He bounced slightly to the beat of the song, a small smile on his face. It was a beautiful spring night, and he would love to be outside watching the stars, but ever since the Germans came, they haven't been allowed to. Alfred wasn't really sure why. He's asked Maman, but she always said that he was too young to understand. He wasn't that young. He was seven years old!_

 _Alfred's attention was caught by the sound of the back door creaking open, which filled Alfred with excitement. He and Matthew stood up and went running to the kitchen. At this late, the only reason the back door should be opening was if Papa came home. It's been too long since the last time Alfred had seen Papa, so when he turned the corner, he jumped towards his father and hugged him around the waist tightly. Matthew did the same._

" _Hello, boys." Papa greeted, a strange tone in his voice, "How are you?"_

" _I'm good, Papa!" Matthew exclaimed, "I missed you!"_

" _I'm good too! And I missed you more!" Alfred yelled._

" _No you didn't!" Matthew argued._

" _I missed him most." Maman said, walking up calmly, before giving him a short, sweet kiss on the lips._

" _How was work, Papa?" Alfred asked excitedly._

 _Papa's eyes widened before he kneeled down and ruffled Alfred's hair. "Remember, Alfred, I can't talk about it too much, but it went well."_

" _Why are you gone so long? You were gone like forever!" He exclaimed._

 _Papa smiled. "It was only a few months, boys, it wasn't that long."_

" _A few months is too long!" Alfred complained, throwing his arms in the air._

 _Papa chuckled and adjusted his glasses that sat over a pair of blue eyes. "Boys, I need to talk to your Maman privately for a little bit, okay? Meet me in the living room."_

" _Yes, Papa." Alfred and Matthew said in unison before walking to the living room and sitting back in front of the radio, listening to another song._

 _This was normal, so Alfred didn't worry. Papa usually had to talk to Maman in private when he came home from work, whatever his work was. Alfred knew what it used to be, he used to be a musician. He used to make songs about freedom and peace, but not anymore. Alfred didn't know what his father did now._

 _He heard mumbling coming from the other room, although his parents were speaking loud enough for Alfred to hear. But they weren't speaking French. A long time ago, Matthew had asked them what they were speaking, and they said it was Spanish. He heard Maman gasp loudly. She then yelled something in the unknown language._

 _Alfred tensed at Maman's loud voice before he looked to Matthew, who gave him a look of fear._

" _What do you think is happening?" Matthew whispered._

 _Alfred shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe Maman doesn't like Papa's new job?"_

" _He's had this job for two years." Matthew replied quietly._

 _Alfred shrugged again. He really didn't know what to think._

 _Papa yelled back, even louder than Maman._

 _Alfred looked back to Matthew, who continued his look of fear._

 _Maman yelled louder._

 _Papa began to cry._

 _Alfred stood and ran to the kitchen, Matthew only a step behind him._

" _What's happening?" Alfred demanded._

 _Papa and Maman stared at Alfred and Matthew. "Alfred! Matthew! Go back to the living room!" Maman ordered._

" _No!" Matthew yelled._

" _Go to your rooms!" Maman shouted._

" _No!" Papa argued._

 _Maman turned her attention to Papa. "What?"_

" _Downstairs. Into the cellar. Now." Papa ordered, his tone of voice sharper than it has been all night._

" _What's happening?" Alfred demanded again._

" _What is happening?" Maman asked Papa more forcefully than Alfred._

" _I'm just protecting you. Go into the cellar, and stay silent."_

" _Why?" Maman hissed._

" _Papa, I'm scared." Matthew whimpered._

 _Papa said something in Spanish to Maman before he bent down in front of Matthew and Alfred. "Don't be afraid, my sons, you must be strong right now. You two must go into the cellar with your mère."_

" _But why?" Matthew asked._

" _What?" Maman exclaimed._

 _More tears appeared in Papa's eyes. "Please, my love, just go in the cellar with them. Please." He begged._

" _What's happening?" Alfred yelled loudly._

 _Papa hugged Alfred. "I'm going to protect you. I will keep you safe."_

 _Tears filled Alfred's eyes. "From what?"_

 _Papa stayed silent._

" _Tell them." Maman whispered._

 _Papa sighed. "The Germans."_

" _Why? What are they going to do?" Matthew asked._

 _Papa pulled Matthew into the hug. "I can't let them hurt you… No matter what."_

 _Alfred pulled away from his père. "Why would they hurt us?"_

" _I don't know why they want to hurt people. They just do." Papa explained. "Now, to the cellar."_

" _I will take them, but I'm not staying down there. I'm going to help you." Maman stated firmly with crossed arms._

" _No, please, my love, don't. Stay safe. Please." Papa begged._

 _Maman replied in Spanish._

 _Papa sighed. "Fine. Take them down there."_

 _Maman walked over and grabbed Matthew and Alfred by the hands and led them through the house._

" _Why aren't you staying with us?" Matthew questioned._

" _I need to stay with him."_

 _Alfred stared up at Maman. "But I'm scared."_

" _Don't be. Nothing will happen. We'll protect you. You'll be safe. You'll be fine."_

 _Alfred turned his head and looked to Matthew._

 _Matthew looked to the floor. "What about you?"_

" _Papa and I will be fine." Maman reassured._

 _Maman unlocked the door to the cellar. "Now, you have to keep the lights off because people can't know you're in there."_

 _Alfred tensed in fear. "But I'm afraid of the dark!" He exclaimed._

" _I'll keep you safe, Al." Matthew replied._

" _I'll turn the lights on so you walk around." Maman explained. She turned the lights on. "Go to the back left corner behind those boxes and stay back there until your Papa or I come and get you, got it?"_

" _Yes, Maman." Matthew and Alfred said in unison._

" _No matter what you hear, you stay back there, understand?"_

" _Yes, Maman." Alfred and Matthew said at the same time._

 _Alfred lead Matthew to the back corner where they climbed over the boxes and sat behind the them._

" _I'm turning out the lights." Maman informed._

 _Alfred tensed, and Matthew grabbed his hand. "Okay, Maman." Matthew said._

 _The lights turned off._

 _Silence. Followed by more silence. The cramped position they were in was getting uncomfortable, but Alfred didn't dare move. He didn't dare make a sound. Who knew what else was in this room? Who knew what could find him? This wasn't like his room, where the window provided moonlight, so he could see his surroundings just enough to be able to sleep. But no, not here. No windows, no light, nothing. Just darkness. He couldn't even see Matthew. He couldn't even see the box in front of him. He saw nothing._

 _But he heard a crashing sound from upstairs. Followed by yelling. Followed by more yelling. Followed by… what was that sound? It was loud, and hurt Alfred's ears. Papa explained that noise a few years ago because they heard it coming from down the street. What was that sound? What was that sound?_

" _Al?" Matthew asked quietly._

" _Yeah?"_

" _Are those… Guns?" Matthew questioned carefully._

 _That's what the noise what called. A gun. No, that wasn't right. A gun was what caused the sound. The sound was a… Gunshot. But the gunshots were over. No more yelling. No more crashing sounds. Nothing. Silence._

" _I think so." Alfred muttered._

" _Why would there be guns?"_

" _I don't know."_

" _Do you think Maman's okay?" Matthew whispered._

" _I don't know. Probably." Alfred replied._

" _Do you think Papa's okay?"_

 _Alfred nodded, although Matthew couldn't see it. "I don't know. Probably."_

 _Matthew and Alfred hushed their conversation and listened. All they heard was mumbling and careful walking._

" _Should we go check on them?" Alfred asked._

" _Maman said to stay here." Matthew argued._

" _But it's over."_

" _Maman said to stay here." Matthew repeated._

" _Come on, Mattie. It's over. It's fine." Alfred reassured._

" _Fine." Matthew mumbled._

 _Alfred stood and climbed on top of the box, then jumped down. Matthew was following him, still holding his hand. Alfred walked slowly to the door. He saw a small line of light come from beneath it. He grabbed the door handle and opened it slowly._

" _Maman? Papa?" Alfred called out._

 _All movement, all mumbling stopped at that moment. Alfred wasn't sure why._

" _Maman? Papa?" Matthew echoed._

 _Running. There was running. Alfred froze. Germans. Germans were running down the stairs with… guns. They yelled something, and Alfred was frozen in fear. He felt Matthew pull on his arm and lead him to the left, and Alfred followed numbly. Were Maman and Papa okay? Were they dead?_

 _Alfred saw Matthew throw open a small door that lead to a narrow staircase that went out to the street. They sprinted up the stairs and out into the street. How could Matthew run? How wasn't he frozen in terror? But Matthew continued to lead Alfred through the streets, and into the alleyways. Alfred looked over his shoulder, and he could no longer see the Germans, but Matthew kept running, pulling Alfred with him._

 _They finally stopped running, and returned to their home a few hours later. They walked in the back door, which was the only one that was unlocked because of Papa. They froze when they entered the living room._

 _Blood. That was the first thing they saw. Then Papa. Then Maman. Alfred and Matthew sprinted to their parents. Alfred shook Maman, begging her to wake. "Maman! Wake up! Wake up! Please! Maman!"_

"Alfred!"

 _Alfred ran to Papa. "Papa! Wake up! Please Papa! I need you! Papa!"_

"Alfred!"

 _Alfred ran back to Maman. "Please Maman! Please! I need you! Maman! Just wake up! Maman!"_

"Alfred!"

Alfred's eyes snapped open to see Matthew standing over him. Alfred sat up and ran his hands over his face, that was wet with tears.

"Are you okay?" Matthew questioned.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Alfred whispered.

Matthew sighed. "You were crying in your sleep."

Alfred shrugged. "I'm fine, it was just a nightmare."

" _Another_ nightmare." Matthew corrected, walking back to his bed that was across the room.

Alfred sighed.

"I swear, I'm waking you up every other night."

"It's not that often." Alfred groaned.

"Maybe you should talk to Arthur and Francis about your nightmares." Matthew said.

Alfred scoffed. "Maybe you should actually talk to Dad and Papa for once."

Matthew didn't reply.

"That's what I thought." Alfred muttered to himself.

"Will you be okay if go back to sleep?" Matthew asked irritably.

"Yeah, Mattie, I'm fine." Alfred reassured.

Matthew laid on his bed. "Goodnight, Al. Love you."

"Goodnight. Love you, too." Alfred responded before the twins fell silent.

Alfred didn't fall back asleep that night.

,

Matthew followed Arthur and Francis into the house with a loud yawn after a long day at work on Tim's farm. He walked into the house, and sat gently down on the couch. He usually did this so Arthur and Francis could wash up, so they could start cooking dinner.

"How does chicken sound for dinner?" Francis asked, walking to the bathroom.

Matthew stayed silent, although chicken did sound good.

"Chicken sounds nice." Alfred replied for the both of them, then plopped down on the couch next to Matthew.

Matthew looked at Alfred, who had his eyes closed with dark circles beneath them. Matthew looked around the house before he leaned forward and whispered, "Are you okay?"

"What?" Alfred asked.

"Are you okay?" Matthew repeated.

"I told you last night that I was."

Matthew shook his head, glanced around the room, then looked back to Alfred. "Did you ever fall back asleep."

"Yeah, Mattie, of course I did." Alfred lied.

Matthew narrowed his eyes. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not!" Alfred exclaimed.

Matthew went to continue prying, but he heard someone entering the room, so he sat up and looked in their direction.

"Wash up, boys." Arthur ordered, "Francis is going start dinner."

"Okay." Alfred replied tiredly before standing and walking to the bathroom. Matthew followed him without a word.

Once they were alone in the bathroom, Matthew continued to pry. "Did you fall back asleep last night?"

"You nag way too much for someone doesn't talk." Alfred groaned.

Matthew turned on the sink and wetted a cloth. "Did you?"

Alfred groaned. "If it'll get you to stop nagging, yes."

"You're lying." Matthew said.

"Well if I'm lying, then don't you know what the real answer is?" Alfred asked irritably, "It was a yes or no question."

Matthew sighed, and began washing the dirt off of his face and hands. He turned and hung the cloth up on the rack behind him and exited the bathroom. He walked across the hall and into his room. He changed out of his dirty clothes and into a new pair. He grabbed his book and paced out into the living room. He sat on the couch, opened his book to where he left off, and stared at the page. Matthew sighed at the words that blurred together. He moved the book closer to his face, but the words blurred even more. He moved the book further away from himself, and the letters cleared up a little. Matthew squinted, trying to make out the letters, and he barely could.

He knew his father had bad eyesight, but it wasn't until recently that Matthew started to develop it, and he hated it. He never knew that having bad eyesight was this hard to manage. Matthew sighed again. He had to read this book, it was for his Polish studies. Since he lives in Poland, he should know how to speak the language, which he generally did, not that Arthur or Francis, or anyone but Alfred knew.

"Mattie, I have a question for you." Alfred said in a teasing tone.

Matthew looked over at him, prompting him to speak.

"How come you only talk to me?"

Matthew looked over his shoulder at Arthur who was wiping down the table with a wet cloth. Matthew didn't answer Alfred's question.

"Come on. Dad walked off, you can answer now." Alfred said.

Matthew looked over his shoulder again, and Arthur was setting the table for dinner.

Alfred sighed irritably. "Nevermind."

Matthew really didn't feel much guilt when it came to not talking to Arthur and Francis. What does that really do? In all that he's learned, talking to people solves nothing, and does nothing. His opinion doesn't matter nor will it change anything. So why should he talk?

* * *

 **Sorry for the angst, but at least now you know what's going on with Alfred and Matthew, right?**

 **~Feliks Out! (^J^)**


	9. Newcomer

Chapter 4

Newcomer

 _Tuesday 6:00pm_

When it came to weather in Poland, it was colder than it was in England and France, but Arthur got used to it quickly. But today was strange. It was the hottest day of the week, so much so that Tim excused them from his ranch an hour early.

Arthur made a left turn into his neighborhood, and began walking uphill, Francis a few paces behind him, the boys even further back. As he came to the top of the hill, his house came into sight, and so did Toris'. Actually, he saw someone he didn't recognize. Arthur slowed his pace to a stop as he observed the scene in front of him.

"What's wrong?" Francis asked, walking up.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Who's that?"

Francis scanned Toris' house, and the blonde man in front of it. "Don't know. Probably Toris' new housemate, he told us that he finally got one."

Arthur didn't reply.

"Why are we stopped?" Arthur heard Alfred question.

"Your father's being paranoid." Francis responded in a teasing tone.

Alfred sighed behind him. "What now?"

"The new neighbor." Francis replied over his shoulder.

Arthur turned and gave Francis an unamused look.

" _Quoi?_ " Francis exclaimed.

"Nothing." Arthur muttered, turning his head away from his love.

"If you're so paranoid, then you should go and meet him." Francis suggested.

Arthur shook his head. "No, he's carrying boxes, I don't want to bother him."

"But," Francis practically sang, "a gentleman would go and help him. You claim to be one, now prove it."

Arthur gave Francis a glare. "Fine. Go home and get dinner started."

"Oh, _oui monsieur!_ " Francis exclaimed, sarcastically saluting him.

Arthur rolled his eyes and walked across the street. The blonde man that he had been watching a moment ago was now picking up a medium-sized box.

"Excuse me." Arthur said, stopping the man in mid-turn.

"Hm?" He hummed.

"I don't mean to bother you-"

"Then why are you bothering me?" The blonde interrupted with a smile.

 _What a jackass._ Arthur thought, staring at him.

The man's smile grew larger. "I'm kidding."

"Oh," Arthur chuckled.

"I, like, threw you off, didn't I?"

Arthur nodded. "Yes, good one."

"What do you need?" He asked.

Arthur shrugged casually. "I was just wondering if you need any help."

The man shook his head. "Oh, no, I got this."

Arthur saw the last box sitting in the driveway. "I'll get this for you." He said, bending down and picking it up.

"Oh, Toris was going to get it, but thanks."

"Don't worry about it." Arthur reassured, repositioning the box in his hands.

"So, you're one of Toris' neighbors. Which one?"

"Oh, I live across the street. I'm Arthur."

"Well, Art, it's nice to meet you, I'm Feliks." He introduced.

Arthur smiled. "Please don't call me Art."

"Whoops, sorry." Feliks replied, awkwardly opening the front door to Toris' house. "Hey, Toris! I met one of your neighbors, he's pretty amazing." He exclaimed.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at that. Either this man judges way too soon, or he's great at reading people. Probably the first one.

"Oh, hey Arthur." Toris greeted, coming around the corner. "I'll take that box from you. What are you doing here?"

Arthur handed the box to his Lithuanian friend. "I saw Feliks with the boxes, so I decided to come over and help."

"Thank you, Arthur." Toris said, turning and walking off with the box, Feliks following him.

Arthur stood there awkwardly and stared where they turned the corner. He wasn't sure if he should leave, or stay and wait.

"You're home earlier than usual, Arthur." Toris commented, walking back in.

"Tim let us off early because of how hot it was." Arthur explained.

"Tim?" Feliks asked, walking back in the room, adjusting his left sleeve.

"The owner of the small ranch." Toris said.

"Oh, yeah. Forgot about him."

Arthur narrowed his eyebrows when he looked to Feliks' right arm. His sleeve was rolled up to his elbow, but his left was completely down to his wrist. Arthur sighed and looked away.

"So you work on the ranch?" Feliks questioned casually, glancing down to his left sleeve.

"Yes, my family and I work on Tim's ranch." Arthur answered.

Feliks looked back up to Arthur. "Your family?"

The Brit straightened his posture, a protectiveness growing inside him. "My cousin and his adopted sons." Arthur lied. He used this lie a lot more than he actually thought. He couldn't just tell everyone that he knew that he was a homosexual, so he lied.

Feliks tilted his head to the side, his blonde hair swaying with it. "Adopted? I haven't met anyone who's been adopted before. How old are they?"

"They're both fifteen."

"Both of them?" Feliks exclaimed, "Not even a month or so difference?"

Arthur glanced to the right, then back to Feliks. "They're twins."

Feliks chuckled. "That makes much more sense."

Arthur nodded awkwardly. "Well, I'll leave you two to eat or something, I'd better get home in time for dinner."

"Alright, it was nice seeing you, Arthur." Toris said.

"It was nice seeing you as well, Toris. And it was nice meeting you, Feliks." Arthur replied, reaching out with his right hand for Feliks to shake.

Feliks shook Arthur's hand. "It was nice meeting you too, Arthur, like I said, you seem like an amazing guy."

"Thank you." Arthur said with a slow nod, unsure how to respond to the strange complement.

"Have a nice night, Arthur," Toris began as Arthur turned and started walking off, "tell Francis and the boys I said hi."

"I will, as always." Arthur responded, looking at Toris over his shoulder, "Do you want the front door closed?"

Toris smiled. "Yes, please."

"Alright," Arthur said, grabbing ahold of the handle, "see you two later."

"Goodbye." Feliks and Toris replied almost at the same time.

Arthur closed the door to Toris' house and walked down the front porch. Feliks seemed like a very strange, but kind man. He definitely didn't come off as someone who'd be a problem in the neighborhood, he actually seemed very laid-back and optimistic. The neighborhood could use some optimism, especially at this time of year.

.

"So, Arthur, what's Toris' housemate's name?" Francis asked, sitting down at the dining room table, and looking at his husband.

Arthur began serving himself some of the pasta Francis had made. "His name is Feliks."

"What's he like?" Francis asked, serving himself dinner.

"Why are you so interested?" Arthur questioned accusingly, but before Francis could respond, Arthur continued, "Oh, right, you're looking for a new husband, I forgot." He said sarcastically.

Francis faked an offended gasp. "How dare you forget!"

"It's probably because, just like you, that information was unimportant to me." Arthur replied, sarcasm still lining his voice.

"Anyway, what's he like?" Francis restated, getting Arthur back on track.

"He's… strange…" Arthur concluded slowly.

Francis narrowed his eyebrows. "How so?"

"Well, maybe quirky is a better word to describe him."

"Oh," Francis said, taking a bite of his meal, "everyone's a little quirky in their own way."

"Yes, but he just gives me the impression that he's very… ecstatic and eccentric." Arthur added.

"So kind of like Alfred?" Francis joked.

"What?" Alfred asked with his mouth full of food, probably just tuning into the conversation.

Francis laughed. "Nothing."

Alfred swallowed his food. "What did you say?"

"He called you eccentric." Arthur answered.

Alfred tilted his head to the side. "What's e-kentric?"

Alfred and Matthew have been doing so well at understanding English over the past five years, Francis sometimes forgot that they were still learning. "Eccentric, Alfred. It means to be strange and have a lot of energy." Francis explained.

"What? I'm not strange." Alfred argued.

Francis went to reply, but the look on Matthew's face that pretty much said "whatever, Al, you're weird" made him laugh before he could. He heard Arthur chuckling beside him.

"Don't look at me like that!" Alfred exclaimed to his brother, who just grinned at him and continued eating.

"Anyway, does Feliks seem suspicious or anything?" Francis asked his Englishman.

Arthur shook his head. "No, he's just very quirky. At least so far."

"Good," Francis began, "now you don't have to be so paranoid, Feliks is fine."

Arthur sighed and continued eating. " _Jeg prøver ikke å være denne paranoid…_ " He mumbled.

Francis groaned. " _Jeg vet._ "

.

 _The sky was dark above Francis' head. Another storm on another battlefield, but at least it wasn't raining, it was just a lightning storm. Lightning struck close, so close that Francis could feel the static in the air, but he didn't flinch. Bombs have come closer to him, its flame almost burning his skin and uniform, and he barely flinched then. Lightning striking close didn't scare him anymore._

 _An explosion went off close, making Francis' ears ring loudly. He couldn't hear Officer Kirkland's orders, so he just stayed where he was. His hearing started coming back to him, and he immediately heard his name._

" _Francis, why aren't you moving? Alistair said to move out!" Arthur yelled at him._

" _I'm sorry, I couldn't hear him through the ringing in my ears!" Francis yelled back over the sound of gunfire._

" _Come on!" Arthur answered, turning around and running out from behind the shelter of a small trench._

 _Francis followed, quickly catching up to the Brit, who ran out from the small trench, and immediately started shooting Nazis. Francis did the same, adrenaline flooding over him, and everything that he did became an impulse of survival due to training._

 _Shoot them before they shoot you. A simple sentence, but it made all the difference. He went sprinting, following Arthur, who was following Alistair. Francis ran through the forest, weaving between trees with ease. Bullets whizzed by, and others smashed into the tree beside him, throwing splinters up into his face, but he didn't really feel it. The adrenaline that pumped through him made him forget about the simple pain of a splinter._

 _He noticed that there was a significant amount of ground between he and Arthur, and he began to speed up, still watching himself and shooting down Nazis before they had the chance to fire at him._

 _Far ahead, he saw Officer Kirkland pick up speed like a fleeing cat, yelling "Grenade!" as he went. Francis saw it, and he began to speed up as well, when he saw Arthur turn and tackle him to the ground._

 _There was a small explosion, but Francis and Arthur were too far from the grenade to feel its flame, and all the shrapnel missed them. It was the concussion of sound waves that hit them. They flew back slightly, Francis landing on his side and rolling a few feet. He saw Arthur fly a few more feet than he did, landing flat on his back, and Francis could hear all of Arthur's air escape his lungs._

 _Dust clouded his vision, his ears rung louder than ever, and his entire body ached in pain. He rolled onto his stomach with a groan. Francis brought his arms up to the sides of his chest and pushed himself up to his feet. Arthur was still on the ground catching his breath._

" _Arthur, you alright?" Francis asked._

 _Arthur nodded weakly, not wasting a breath on speaking._

 _Francis turned around, looking for something, not completely sure what, though. Dust swirled around, distracting the young Frenchman._

" _Fran...cis…" It was a fragile, broken voice that spoke his name, but it caught Francis' attention. He turned to the sound, to see a man lying on the ground._

" _Thomas?" Francis asked carefully as he came closer to the young man. It was indeed Private Thomas Campbell, another friend that Francis had made over the past month or so. Some dust cleared, and he could see the young man better, which made Francis fight tears._

 _Thomas' chest and neck were covered in blood. It had become obvious to Francis that he had shrapnel in his neck and chest, which would kill him quickly, but painfully. Thomas also had deadly burns on his chest, face, neck, and arms. The poor man was crying, and he turned his head to spit blood out of his mouth._

" _What do you need, Thomas?" Francis asked, wondering if this was some kind of last-words situation._

" _Kill me." Thomas said simply, catching Francis off guard._

" _What? No, I can't do that!" Francis exclaimed._

 _Thomas closed his eyes. "I'll die… anyway…"_

" _No, I can't do that!" Francis repeated._

" _It's a mercy-kill… please…" Thomas begged quietly._

" _But-"_

" _I'm in so much pain." Thomas interrupted._

" _No, no…" Francis protested, "You'll pull through this."_

 _Thomas shook his head. "Please... I'm in so much pain."_

 _Tears collected in Francis' eyes as he turned to where his rifle landed. Arthur was still on his back, looking at him in dazed confusion. "What's going on?" He asked, blood beginning to stain his blonde hair._

" _A mercy-kill." Francis said simply, picking up the rifle and walking over to Thomas._

" _Take my ammo and water. I don't need it anymore." Thomas instructed._

 _Francis nodded, unable to speak._

 _Thomas smiled, closing his eyes again. "Thank you for being my friend."_

" _You're welcome," Francis choked out, still fighting tears, "thank you for being mine." Francis pointed the rifle to Thomas' head, which no longer had a helmet strapped to it. Francis' hands were shaking, which was strange. His hands never shook while aiming before. He took aim, which wasn't hard at point-blank range, he closed his eyes, and squeezed the trigger._

 _Francis had never felt so much regret for shooting someone before. At the beginning of the war, he did. He was regretful during the first battle he was in, but not now. Germans taking over his country could really get him hateful and vengeful, wanting to see those Germans to go running and crying back to their own country, where they could suffer for everything that they had done. But that was the mistake that the Allies did in the last war. That's what made Germany so broke that the people mind as well have been eating dirt. Every German was seeking help, and when that came, they were more loyal than ever, even if their leader was an insane maniac. Although this sad truth, Francis still wanted to see the Germans running back home in fear._

 _This time be did feel regret. But it was because Thomas was an ally, a friend. A man who had got so injured that he begged for death, begged for the pain to end. That's something Francis could never imagine being in. Tears rolled down his face. "I'm sorry, Thomas." Francis whispered at the sight of Thomas' blood staining the dirt below him._

 _._

Arthur groaned as he rolled over, waking up slowly. He heard Francis mumbling, crying. Arthur sat up, rubbing his eye with the palm of his hand. He yawned and stretched before turning and clicking on the lamp on his nightstand.

"Francis." Arthur whispered, shaking his partner gently.

"Francis." Arthur repeated louder.

Francis stirred, snapping his eyes open and turning his head to Arthur quickly.

"Calm down, Francis, " Arthur reassured, "it's just me."

Francis deflated slightly. "Oh, it was just a dream."

"Dream, or flashback?" Arthur asked, tilting his head.

Francis paused, looking away from Arthur. "Flashback."

Arthur nodded in understanding, wiping tears from Francis' cheeks. "What about?"

"Do you remember Thomas?"

Arthur looked up to the ceiling, pondering the name that was given to him. "Yes, he was a friend of yours, right?"

" _Oui_ …" Francis replied, trailing off.

"What about him?" Arthur prompted, trying to put his partner back on topic.

Francis sniffled. "Do you remember how he died?"

"Not really," Arthur began, "there was so much death in those five years that we fought, I don't really remember specifics."

"I had to mercy-kill him." Francis reminded.

Arthur closed his eyes. "Right." He commented, wiping more of Francis' tears away.

"What if he could've pulled through?" Francis questioned, closing his eyes and covering his face with his hands. "Then I killed him when he could've seen his family again."

"Francis, Thomas wouldn't have pulled through, you told me that he shrapnel in his throat, face and chest. He would've died. You spared him the pain."

"It doesn't feel like it." Francis mumbled into his hands.

Arthur gingerly took Francis' wrists and pulled them from his face. "Francis, it's okay. He told you to. He didn't want to die in pain."

"I could've gotten a medic." Francis argued.

"Removing the shrapnel would've been even more painful." Arthur replied, gently and discreetly rubbing where his bullet wound was, as ghost pain reminded him of the shot.

Francis must have caught sight of Arthur rubbing the past wound. "You okay?"

Arthur smiled reassuringly. "Yes, Francis, I'm fine." He dropped his hand onto the mattress.

"I just feel so guilty." Francis murmured.

"Don't." Arthur stated firmly. "He told you to spare him the pain. In his view, you did him a favor."

"But-"

"It was a long time ago, Francis. I talked to you about this back then. You shouldn't feel guilt."

Francis nodded. "You're right."

Arthur smiled at his partner. They knew what the other needed when they were in a fragile state like this. Arthur needed comfort, someone to cry on, someone to run their fingers through his hair and tell him that he had someone, that they understand, that everything was better now. Francis needed someone to be strong for him. When Francis was crying and shaking from a flashback, he needed someone to tell him that everything was okay, it was over. Francis needed Arthur to remind him that whatever his dream was about happened a long time ago, that it was just a dream, it wasn't real. Arthur was so glad that they were together in Poland, even if they were just above dirt-poor. Arthur had Francis, Alfred and Matthew; and Francis, Alfred and Matthew had him.

* * *

 **Translations:**

 _ **Jeg prøver ikke å være denne paranoid (Norwegian)-**_ _**I'm not trying to be this paranoid**_

 _ **Jeg vet (Norwegian)-**_ _**I know**_

 _ **Oui (French)-**_ _**Yes**_

 **Arthur and Francis are seen speaking Norwegian in this chapter, and that's because of Lukas. Arthur had known Norwegian since his childhood, and Arthur and Lukas taught Francis during the war. They were speaking this because Alfred and Matthew don't know Norwegian (Alfred and Matthew know French, and they're learning English and Polish). You will see Arthur and Francis speaking Norwegian throughout the entire story. If my Norwegian, French, or Polish translations are wrong, let me know, and please tell me how to fix it, and I will as soon as possible.**

 **Also, I'm sorry for the long wait, this chapter came out very slow for me. Also school did get in the way a little bit. Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter.**

 **~Feliks Out! (^J^)**


	10. Getting to Know Your Housemate

Chapter 5

 _Getting To Know Your Housemate_

 _ **Translations are at the bottom of the chapter**_

Toris cleaned dust off of Feliks' back desk, as Feliks was working on his current project. So far, living with Feliks was pretty great. There was much more conversation now that Toris wasn't living alone, nor did his talk to Eduard and Ravis nearly as much, which must be good. Feliks was lively, to say the least. He seemed to have a large amount of energy, but, strangely, crash by the time night comes.

"So, is everything super-cluttered over there?" Feliks asked as he held up the button-up shirt he was working on, checking the seam he just finished.

"No, no," Toris chuckled, "this is nothing compared to some houses. I swear, some of these people that I clean for are hoarders."

"That bad, huh?" Feliks chuckled, putting the shirt back beneath his machine, continuing to sew the shirt together.

"Yeah," Toris breathed with a sigh. He glanced back at Feliks, who was already focused back on his work. _Although he's quirky, he does have a good work ethic,_ Toris noted. He walked off from behind Feliks, and over to the windows. Using glass cleaner and newspaper, Toris began cleaning off Feliks' dirty windows with ease.

"Why are you using newspaper?" Feliks questioned.

Toris looked to Feliks over his shoulder. "I'm using newspaper because it keeps the glass from streaking, I figured it out when I left my rags at home."

Feliks gave Toris a stumped expression. "I didn't know, I'll remember that next time I clean."

Toris chuckled. "You know, I can just clean around here for you. I mean we are living together."

Feliks gasped loudly. "And yes, it's such a _huge_ step in our relationship!"

Toris stared at Feliks in confusion for a long moment, unsure what he meant by that.

Feliks smirked. "I'm joking."

Toris sighed in relief. Stuff like this had happened an embarrassingly large amount of times, which was strange for Toris. He wasn't the best at sensing jokes, but he could usually read people in general… Except for Feliks.

Toris finished the window he was working on, and moved to the one beside it. He pulled back the curtain that blocked out sunlight, and Feliks literally hissed behind him. Slowly, Toris turned around to look at the Pole, who was lowering his hand from in front of his eyes.

"A bit of a warning next time." He complained.

"Sorry," Toris apologised, "I didn't think that the sun would blind you that badly."

Feliks gracefully waved his hand in dismissal. "No, no, it's okay, that was just, like, unexpected."

"I'll warn you next time." Toris promised as he turned to the window, and began to clean the it.

When he was finished with that window, he glanced out it for a moment, and turned away. Toris stopped in his tracks when he realized he saw a figure walking to Feliks' shop. He turned back to the window and stared at who it was, the person's identity becoming more and more clear as he neared the small shop.

"No way… It can't be..." Toris breathed as he recognized the man.

"Hm?" Feliks hummed from behind him.

The door opened, the top of it hitting the small golden bell above it, that rang in reply.

"Oh, hey Ivan." Feliks greeted.

"Afternoon, Feliks." Ivan replied in a tired voice.

"Braginsky?" Toris exclaimed in confusion.

Ivan turned to him with a raised eyebrow. "Laurinaitis?"

Feliks cleared his throat after a brief moment of silent confusion in the room, and both Toris and Ivan turned to look at him. "So, you two, like, know each other or something?"

Toris glanced at Ivan, who was about to speak. "Yes!" He exclaimed, cutting off the Russian.

Feliks shrugged in reply. "This is just a guess, but you two haven't seen each other in a while?"

Ivan shook his head. "No."

Feliks nodded. "Well, I need to keep working, I'll let you two catch up."

"Thank you." Toris said to Feliks, who winked at him in reply. He then looked back up to Ivan, the confused expression still painted on his face. "What are you doing here?"

Ivan glanced to Feliks, then back to Toris. "Picking up a pair of pants. I needed a patch-up."

Toris shook his head. "No, I mean in Poland. What are you doing in Poland?"

"I'm stationed here."

Toris glanced to Ivan's uniform, which was an obvious Soviet Union uniform. "Right, sorry. That was obvious. But wait, didn't you want out of war?"

Ivan looked away for a brief moment, almost as if he was deciding whether or not to answer Toris' question. "I don't really have anything back at home anymore."

Toris nodded in understanding, for that's the exact reason he's in Poland too; there's nothing for him back in Lithuania except bad memories and headstones. "I understand." Toris responded grimly, not sure if he should ask Ivan to go into further detail.

Ivan nodded and turned to Feliks. "Are my pants ready? I can't stay very long."

Quickly, Feliks spun around in his wheeled chair to his back desk. He hummed as he went from pile to pile, looking for Ivan's pair of pants. "Here they are!" He eventually exclaimed.

"Thank you," Ivan replied as he took his pants from Feliks, "I wish I could stay and chat, but I must get going."

Toris waved the platinum blonde off. "No, it's fine, Ivan. You have things to do."

Ivan nodded to Toris. "Hopefully I'll see you around."

Toris smiled. "Yes, and I hope you day goes smoothly."

Ivan groaned with a roll of his eyes. "I'd kill for that." He mumbled as he walked to the door. "See you two."

"Bye-bye!" Feliks said, faking a feminine voice.

"Bye, Ivan." Toris replied.

There was a moment of silence between he and Feliks, so Toris began cleaning the windows again. Well, at least until Feliks asked that dreaded question.

"How do you and Ivan know each other?"

Toris deflated at the question. He didn't want to answer because he hadn't told Feliks that he was in the war yet, but then again, he had to tell him eventually. Toris sighed before turning to the Pole. "I met him in 1940, on the Eastern Front. He was my officer."

Feliks' eyes widened in surprize before an unreadable expression appeared on his face. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "So, you were in the war?"

Toris nodded slowly. "I was a part of the Lithuanian Army, before the country got annexed in 1940." He paused for a moment as the memory of Eduard and Ravis entered his mind. "I joined the Russian Army, and Ivan was in charge of my battalion."

"Oh…" Feliks trailed off, a strange tone in his voice. "Are you okay?"

Confusion crossed Toris. "What?"

Feliks glanced away. "I know that sometimes people can get, like, flashbacks from things like that." He explained, "Are you okay?"

Toris nodded. "Yes, Feliks, I'm okay." He lied.

.

Feliks and Toris walked up their street, making small talk. Feliks asked Toris a little about the war, but he knew that it could be a sensitive topic, so he generally steered clear of it. It was a warm summer day, and the sun was far from setting. It still blazed brightly in the sky, warming the skin of both Toris and Feliks. Feliks kind of wished it was a bit colder, so he wasn't sweating in his long sleeved shirt.

There was a simple solution to his problem; roll up his sleeves, but that wasn't something he was willing to do. Not out in public, not in front of Toris.

"Feliks?" Toris asked, gaining his attention.

Feliks felt dumb, he had completely ignored whatever the attractive Lithuanian had said because he was too lost in thought. "Yeah?" He responded, acting casual.

"You alright?"

"Hm? Me, I'm fine. I wasn't the one in a war." Feliks responded

"You were zoning out." Toris added, stating the obvious.

Feliks turned around to look at Toris, who was further away than he had thought. Toris was standing on the slight hill, only a few feet from the small front porch, whilst Feliks was still on the sidewalk, headed further down the street. "Oh," he chuckled, "I thought this one was your house." Feliks said, pointing at the house to the left of Toris'.

Toris stared at the house for a moment before he shrugged. "I guess they do look a little similar."

Feliks swallowed hard, hoping, begging that Toris wouldn't pry more, and buy his act. Toris opened his mouth to speak again, but he was interrupted by a voice behind them.

" _Bonjour!_ "

Feliks turned to see a group of four men, one of them Feliks recognised as Arthur, walking to their house directly across from Toris'.

"Speak Polish, dammit!" Arthur yelled at the long blonde who was approaching him.

" _Przepraszam._ " The blonde apologised, " _Cześć, nazywam się Francis._ "

Feliks smiled as he listened to his neighbor attempt at speaking Polish. " _Witam, jestem Feliks._ "

Francis paused, looking up at the sky, probably translating in his head. " _Miło ciebie._ "

Feliks drew his eyebrows together, trying to understand what Francis had just butchered. " _Co?_ "

Arthur yelled down the correct translation of what Francis was attempting to say. " _Miło cię poznać!_ "

Francis sighed heavily. " _Nom de Dieu._ "

Feliks recognised that last part as French, but he then remembered that he could barely speak French. It seemed like he and Francis were going to have quite the language barrier. He thought for a moment, before he remembered that Arthur had yelled at Francis in English at the beginning of their conversation. "Would English be better?" Feliks suggested.

Francis sighed in relief. "Yes, that would be so much better!"

Arthur came jogging over, pointing at Francis angrily."No, no, no, no! You need to practice!"

"Arthur, it's alright," Feliks reassured, "it looks like all four of you had a long day at work, don't make him strain himself."

Francis laughed teasingly at Arthur, who scowled and flashed him the V sign.

"Sorry about him, Feliks, he's just cranky from the long day at work." Francis apologised.

Arthur pointed at himself. " _I'm_ cranky?"

Francis smiled. " _Oui._ I mean, I'm in an obviously good mood, Feliks and Toris seem to be in a good mood, Alfred and Matthew are in a good mood, you're the only one who's cranky."

Arthur narrowed his eyes and scowled at Francis. "G _å til helvete._ "

Francis exclaimed a sound of pain, putting his left hand on his chest. "Why are you so mean to me? Why must you hurt me?"

Feliks raised an eyebrow at the playful argument the two were having. Arthur and Toris had told him that Arthur and Francis were cousins, and the twins standing by their house were Francis' sons, but Arthur and Francis definitely did not act like cousins. Sure, some cousins get along very well, and are closer to each other than Feliks is with his cousins, but they usually don't act like _this._ The hidden playful attitude in both of them suggested something more than just "getting along," something… romantic, even?

Feliks snorted in laughter at his last thought.

Francis and Arthur both looked over at him in confusion. "What?" They said in unison.

Panic filled Feliks, but luckily, due to his quirkiness and his fast-thinking, coming up with believable lies was a hidden talent. "Nothing, I just remembered a joke."

"Jokes? I like jokes!" One of Francis' sons exclaimed.

Feliks swallowed hard. "It's inappropriate for your young ears." He lied, "Like, _really, really_ inappropriate."

"I want to hear it." Francis said, stepping closer.

Feliks just realized that he cornered himself. He didn't know how to get out of this one, his quick-wit was failing him. "Uh, I don't really want to start off our neighborly relationship off with a joke like that." Feliks finally answered awkwardly.

Francis chuckled. "Well, if it's that inappropriate, then nevermind.."

"Wait a minute." The boy said in an annoyed tone. "What do you mean 'too inappropriate for my young ears?'"

Feliks looked over at the blonde with blue eyes, that he could actually see a resemblance between Francis and him, although Arthur said he was adopted. "I don't know what you know."

"Could we get off this subject?" Arthur asked irritably.

Feliks shrugged. "Sure."

"You're Feliks, right?" The teen with blue eyes questioned.

Feliks straightened his posture, pretending that he was someone of high importance. "Oh, so you've heard of me? And yes, that is my name."

"...Yeah?" The teen replied slowly, the answer sounding more like a question rather than anything else. "Anyway, I'm Alfred, and this is Matthew." He pointed at the twin standing over by Arthur.

Matthew looked over at the sound of his name, he made eye contact with Feliks, and, after a slight hesitation, waved at him.

Feliks waved back. "Hey."

Matthew nodded at him, before he turned back to where he was looking.

Feliks smiled. "Is he shy?"

Alfred glanced at his brother before he responded. "No, he just doesn't talk."

"Why's that?"

Alfred hesitated for a moment before he answered. "He's mute."

Feliks glanced over at Toris, who had walked by to talk to Francis and Arthur. He turned back to Alfred. "Really?"

Alfred nodded slowly.

"Hey, Feliks, Toris?" Francis asked, gaining everyone's attention.

Feliks looked over, he saw Arthur walking up his front porch, probably going to wash up. "Yeah?" He replied.

"What is it, Francis?" Toris asked.

"How about you two come over for dinner." The Frenchman suggested.

"What?" Arthur exclaimed from his front door, turning to the group.

"That's a great idea!" Alfred exclaimed.

Feliks raised his hands. "I don't want to intrude-"

"No, it wouldn't be intruding!" Francis interrupted.

Feliks looked up at Arthur, who was glancing from person to person from on his front porch. There was a small amount of either anger or hostility or a mixture of both in his green eyes. Feliks was confused at that. The other day, Arthur was a strange character, but he seemed very kind. But today he seemed more aggressive.

"Right, Arthur?" Francis added, turning to Arthur.

Arthur only rolled his eyes and opened his front door, closing it quickly behind him as he entered his house. "Maybe we shouldn't." Feliks concluded.

Francis shook his head. "He's just not in the best mood today. It'll be good for him, trust me on this."

"What should I bring over?" Toris asked.

"You don't have to bring anything." Francis replied.

Toris shook his head. "No, we have to bring something."

Francis sighed. "What were you planning on eating tonight?"

Toris put his hands in his pockets. "Some chicken and mashed potatoes."

"Just bring that over, I guess."

"What time?" Feliks asked.

Francis looked down at his watch for a moment. "Just come over whenever you're food is ready. Give us at least an hour to wash up, though."

Toris glanced down at his watch. "So, eight at the earliest?"

Francis nodded. "Yeah, that'll work."

"Alright," Feliks said with a nod, "see you then."

Francis walked off with his sons, waving back at them. "See you."

Feliks and Toris entered their house without much conversation. Toris strode in the kitchen, putting the chicken in the oven and turning it on.

"So," Feliks began, turning on the sink and washing his hands, "what's up with Arthur and Francis?"

"What do you mean?"

Feliks turned off the sink and started drying his hands on a towel. "Are they a couple, or are they not?"

Toris glanced over at him with a chuckle. "You come up with such strange ideas."

Feliks tilted his head to the side. "Come on, you can't say that they were acting like cousins out there! There is definately something else going on!" He exclaimed.

Toris sighed. "They are a couple." He said slowly, "They just tell people that they're cousins so people won't wonder why they live together with two sons."

Feliks shrugged. "Makes sense."

"That doesn't change any opinions about them, does it?" Toris questioned, a hint of protectiveness in his voice.

Feliks narrowed his eyebrows. "Why would I judge? I'm a homosexual myself! That'd be very hypocritical of me, don't you think?"

"You never know with some people."

"You have a good point." Feliks replied with a nod.

Feliks pulled the potatoes out of the refrigerator and began mashing them with a small amount of butter and spices for dinner.

"Feliks." Toris said carefully.

"Yeah?"

Toris hesitated for a moment. "I should warn you about something."

Feliks looked over at the attractive Lithuanian. "About what?"

"About Arthur."

A little bit of uneasiness came with the name, not that Arthur scared him, it's just that Arthur was so different today that he was a few days ago, and Feliks didn't know what to expect from him. Feliks was sure that Arthur could be very kind, but Feliks was also sure that Arthur could be very cruel, if he wanted to be. "What about him?" Feliks finally replied.

"He's…" Toris paused for a long moment, probably trying to figure out a kind way of putting what he was about to say. "He's a troubled man, they all are over there."

Concern filled Feliks. "What do you mean?"

Toris paused again. "Arthur and Francis both fought in the war, just like I did, but they fought in France."

"...Oh…"

"Arthur is very paranoid ever since the war, so that's why he seemed a little… aggressive earlier." Toris added.

"What about Alfred and Matthew?" Feliks asked.

"They were orphaned because of the war, they lived in France until now."

Feliks deflated at Toris' words. "How old were they?"

"Uh…" Toris hummed in thought, "they were seven when they were orphaned and they met Arthur and Francis when they were ten."

"That's terrible!" Feliks exclaimed. "Do you know what happened to them?"

Toris shook his head. "No, I don't."

Feliks felt sorry for that entire family. "That's why Matthew doesn't speak?"

Toris' eyes widened slightly. "Yes-"

"I mean, Alfred told me that he was mute, but he, like, never specified if it was choosingly or not." Feliks interrupted.

Toris nodded. "He's choosingly mute, yes."

Feliks sighed sadly, thinking to himself. _How many people were hurt by this war? How many people have more nightmares than dreams? How many people suffered?_

* * *

 ***-If any of my translations in any of the languages are wrong, please let me know in the comments, and I'll fix it.-***

 **Translations**

 _Bonjour- Hello/Hi (French)_

 _Przepraszam- Sorry/I'm sorry/Excuse me (Polish)_

 _Cześć, nazywam się Francis- Hi, my name was Francis (Polish)_

 _Witam, jestem Feliks- Hello, I'm Feliks (Polish)_

 _Miło ciebie- It's nice of you (Polish)_

 _Co- What (Polish)_

 _Miło cię poznać- Nice to meet you (Polish)_

 _Nom de Dieu- Goddammit (French)_

 _Gå til helvete- Go to hell (Norwegian)_


	11. First Impressions

Chapter Six

First Impressions

Arthur stormed into the house angrily. He didn't feel like repressing his paranoia tonight, and now Francis arranged dinner with Feliks and Toris. True, Toris was their friend, but Francis should've at least _asked_ him before he went inviting them into his home.

"What the hell was that?" Arthur demanded, blocking his husband from entering the kitchen.

Francis crossed his arms. "All I did was invite them to dinner."

Arthur crossed his arms as well. "You could've at least asked."

Francis shrugged. "I did, and they said yes."

"Not them," Arthur argued, "you could've asked me."

Francis let out a long sigh and tried to push his way past Arthur, who didn't budge. "Arthur, you're being paranoid."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "You say that like I don't realize it. I know I'm being paranoid!"

"Then stop it." Francis stated like it was simple, and turned around, heading for the bathroom.

Arthur dropped his hands to his sides, clenching his fists in anger. "It's not that simple." He growled, following his Frenchman.

Francis glanced over his shoulder. "Listen, Arthur, you trust Toris, _oui?_ "

"Yes."

"And you trust his judgement?" Francis added.

Arthur rolled his eyes, already knowing where Francis was headed with his argument. "Yes, and I know what you're going to say."

Francis turned around with a smile. "Do you now?"

"Yes," Arthur began, "you're going to remind me how well Toris can read people, and you will remind me on how much I trust Toris and his judgement, then you're going to tell me that I have nothing to worry about because of my trust in Toris and his decisions."

Francis stared at Arthur for a moment. "We've had this talk too many times,, haven't we?"

Arthur nodded. "Yes, Francis."

"Alright, I'll go in a different direction." The blonde haired Frenchman started, "Why are you paranoid about Feliks?"

Arthur sighed heavily. "You ask that like there's an easy answer." He groaned, "Francis, I don't know why I'm paranoid about him, I just am."

"There _has_ to be a reason-"

"For someone who has paranoia, no there doesn't." Arthur interrupted, raising his eyebrows and crossing his arms to emphasize his point.

"What do you mean there's no reason?" Francis exclaimed, "This paranoia must've come from somewhere _._ "

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I don't know where my paranoia sparked from."

"The war?"

Arthur shrugged. "If so, I don't know why. I trusted everyone in our regiment without even knowing them, just because we were all fighting a common enemy."

"Even Alistair?" Francis asked.

Arthur blinked. "He's my brother, I can only trust him so much, but yes, I did."

Francis hummed in thought. "Maybe it developed from your childhood. You said you and your brothers never got along, so you couldn't really trust them. You said your father was strict, so you didn't along with him, so you couldn't trust him. The only person you could've really trusted was your mother."

Arthur shook his head. "Although my brothers and I never got along, I still trusted them, especially in teenage years when we all matured. My father was strict, but I knew I could trust him with anything, and I could trust my mum with anything as well."

Francis narrowed his eyebrows. "If you could trust your parents with basically anything, why are we here instead of England?"

"Because of you," Arthur began, "my parents are trusting, and pretty accepting, but not _this_ accepting. I don't think Mum and Dad would like it if I came home with another man."

Francis shrugged. "Good point."

"Anyway," Arthur said, drawing Francis back on topic, "helping me find the source of my paranoia won't help me right now."

Francis glanced away for a moment before he looked back to Arthur. "Then what will?"

Arthur looked away from Francis, thinking hard. He never tried to figure out what would help his paranoid thoughts, he just always repressed them until he finally realized that there was no need to worry. He began to analyze the situation. He never really liked things being too spontaneous, which was exactly what this was; a spontaneous decision to invite Toris and Feliks over.

Arthur sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "Maybe next time plan it out with me? I mean, you have to agree, this was pretty spontaneous."

"Okay-"

"And give me some time in advance to think about it?" Arthur added.

"How much time?" Francis asked.

Arthur shrugged. "A day or so?"

"A day in advance." Francis echoed, "See, we can work with this."

"I know, Francis. We've been working with it for five years." Arthur groaned.

Francis gingerly brushed Arthur's bangs out of his face. "No, we've been living around it. You just need to stop worrying so much."

Arthur closed his eyes. He wanted to rant to Francis on how he can't stop himself from worrying, but he wasn't in the mood for it. Besides, he had to wash up and straighten up the house, first impressions are everything, after all.

.

Feliks was unsure how to think about tonight. First impressions were everything, and he didn't want to mess up. He stood in his bedroom, deciding whether or not the shirt he was wearing was too formal, which he wanted to look both formal and casual.

Feliks groaned, "You're stressing about this way too much." He told himself, "It's not like this is a wedding you're going to, it's just dinner."

Although his attempt to reassure his nerves, it didn't work. He sighed, finished buttoning up his red shirt, slipped on a pair of pants followed by shoes, and exited his room. He's never been an easily-stressed-out-guy, but he's always been awkward and shy around strangers, which he wanted to pretend that he wasn't. Feliks walked into the restroom, and ran a brush through his hair.

Once again, Feliks felt like a worried young teenage girl going on her first date, desperately trying to make sure she looked nice, but not too nice. He set the brush on the counter and stared at himself for a moment, his eyes traveling down to his covered left arm. He pulled up his sleeve, staring at the two numbers that he allowed his sleeve show, the sounds of Toris moving in his room muffling and fading out of mind.

There was a knock on the bathroom door. "Feliks?"

Feliks jumped, throwing down his sleeve and flinging the door open with wide eyes. He opened his mouth so he could speak, but he instead cleared his throat and cocked his head to the side, staring Toris in the eye. "Yes?" He asked, trying to act calm and casual, but it didn't work.

"Are you alright? I called your name a couple times." Toris explained.

Feliks waived his right hand in dismissal. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine Toris," he reassured, "I just wasn't paying attention, I didn't notice that you called my name. I'm sorry if I worried you."

Toris shook his head. "It's fine, Feliks."

Feliks slipped out of the restroom, squeezing through the small space between Toris and the doorframe. "I'll just let you have the restroom now."

"I would've moved out of your way." Toris replied after Feliks successfully squeezed by him.

"Nope, you're fine." He said, turning and walking awkwardly down the hall, begging that Toris wasn't suspicious of his sudden strange behavior. But then again, Feliks had noticed that Toris was often confused by Feliks' behavior or jokes, and yet he does not question.

Feliks then realized that he was standing in the kitchen, aimlessly staring at the oven. He let out a long sigh, trying to figure out why he entered the room. But his mind was jumbled today, and he wondered how that would later affect his dinner with the strange family of four that lived across the street. He turned around and paced to the dinner table, sitting in front of the chicken and potatoes he and Toris prepared to bring over.

"Are you alright?" Toris asked from the entrance to the hallway.

Feliks nodded.

"Are you sure?"

Feliks nodded again. "I'm just nervous."

"There's no reason to be nervous, Feliks," Toris reassured, "Francis and Arthur are very kind people. Arthur is just a little paranoid and protective."

Feliks leaned back in his chair, looking at Toris over his shoulder. "Thank you for the reassurance."

Toris shrugged. "You're welcome." Toris paused, "Are you ready to go?"

Feliks stood up, grabbing the plate of potatoes. "Yes."

"Then let's go." The Lithuanian replied, taking the plate of chicken.

Feliks followed Toris out of the house and across the street. He watched Toris knock on the door, and without hesitation, open it and walk in. Feliks then understood what kind of friendship Toris, Francis, and Arthur actually had, the three of them letting each other just walk into their houses unannounced.

"Let me help you with that, Toris." Arthur said, walking up.

"No, Arthur, it's fine, I got it." Toris insisted.

Arthur turned to Feliks. "Need any help?"

Feliks shook his head. "I'm pretty sure I got it, but thank you."

Arthur shrugged. "No problem. How are you two tonight?"

"I'm well, Arthur." Toris answered.

Feliks smiled. "I'm pretty fabulous right now, how are you?"

Arthur drew his eyebrows together. "You're…?" He shook his head, "nevermind, I'm well, Feliks."

Feliks chuckled, setting the plate down on the table, directly next to the chicken that Toris had previously set down. He noticed that Toris had walked off into the kitchen to talk with Francis, so he decided to stay in the dining room with Arthur.

"Where are your sons?" Feliks asked as he noticed they weren't in sight.

" _Francis'_ sons are in their room studying." Arthur replied.

"Studying what?"

Arthur glanced to the kitchen. "Polish and English."

"They're learning two languages at once? That has to be hard." Feliks commented.

Arthur shrugged. "They seem to be doing fine with it. Today I told them to study Polish."

Feliks cocked his head to the side. "What's their first language?"

"French." Arthur answered without hesitation.

"Do you speak French?"

Arthur nodded.

"How many languages do you know?" Feliks asked.

Arthur glanced at him. "English, French, Polish, Norwegian, and some Romanian."

"How'd you learn Norwegian and Romanian?"

Arthur closed his eyes and paused for a long moment. "My friends."

"Are they-"

"I'm going to go get the boys, dinner's ready." Arthur interrupted, walking down the hall quickly.

Feliks stared after him. _Dammit!_ He thought, _I already got on his bad side, somehow…_ He looked to the kitchen and saw Francis and Toris walking out and sitting down at the table. Feliks followed their actions, sitting down next to Toris, and across from Francis.

"How are you, Feliks?" Francis asked almost immediately.

"Fabulous, how are you?" He replied.

Francis chuckled. "Beautiful as ever!"

Feliks got the feeling that he and Francis would get along very well. "Well that's good."

"I know, I don't know what I would do if I wasn't beautiful anymore!" Francis exclaimed.

"Oh, God, I don't want to know how you'll react when you're old and wrinkled." Arthur commented, walking up to the table with his sons.

"I will never be old and wrinkled!" Francis countered, "I'll be young and beautiful forever!"

"Really? Did you drink from the fountain of youth?" Arthur replied sarcastically.

"Why, yes I did."

Feliks saw Arthur walk around the table and behind Francis. "Then what's with this grey hair?" He asked, holding a thin strand of hair that Feliks thought was blonde.

"What?" Francis yelled.

Arthur laughed, sitting down beside him. "You're so gullible."

"I am _not_ gullible!" Francis argued.

"Yeah you are." Alfred added, sitting down, Matthew sitting beside him.

Feliks laughed. "I'd say you're gullible, Francis, I mean, if your son can tell…"

Francis narrowed his eyes. "So I can see that Arthur already convinced you to stay on his side. How'd he manage that?"

Feliks shrugged, hoping that he sensed Francis' joke correctly. "He bribed me."

Francis looked from Feliks to Arthur. "You bribed him! With what money?"

Arthur shrugged. "The money I've been hiding from you for five years."

"Where?" Alfred asked jokingly.

Arthur turned his attention to Alfred. "Well, if I'm hiding it, then why would I tell you?"

"Because I'm not Papa, and Mattie and I can keep a secret." Alfred answered, " _Especially_ Matthew."

Feliks turned to Matthew, seeing an offended expression form on his face.

Arthur glanced from person to person, narrowing his eyes. "I'll tell you later." He whispered.

Alfred pumped his fist. "Yes."

"Feliks, can I have your plate?" Toris asked.

Feliks turned to the sound of his name. "Oh, sure thing." He handed over the plain white plate, and Toris served him some chicken and potatoes.

"So, Feliks," Francis began, serving himself food, "how long have you been a tailor?"

Feliks paused to think. "I've been tailoring since I was a teenager, but I've owned my current shop for about four years."

"What about before your current shop?" Toris asked kindly.

Feliks swallowed hard, _I was dying from hypothermia_ , he thought. "I had one for about a year, but it was destroyed in the war." He took a bite of food, giving Arthur and Francis a discretely nervous glance. He saw Arthur's eyes narrow slightly, sensing his lie. "What about you four? How long have you been working on Tim's ranch?"

Arthur paused for a moment, staring into Feliks' eyes suspiciously. "We've been working for Tim for five years now."

Feliks blinked. "All four of you?"

"We need the money, so, yes." Francis answered, Feliks noticing that he was giving Arthur a look. Arthur glanced back to Francis without a word.

"So, you've had your shop for four years," Arthur recalled, "and it's already very popular in the town." He added.

Feliks shrugged. "Like I said, I did some tailoring before the war, and I worked for a tailor as a teenager, after, of course, I moved off my parents' farm."

"You're parents were farmers?" Toris asked.

"Yes, wheat farmers." Feliks answered.

"After the war," Arthur began, pulling Feliks back onto the uncomfortable topic of the war, "how'd you get the money for your current shop?"

Feliks sighed. "I did some work for Tim on his ranch, actually," he said in a matter-of-fact tone, "raised some money for myself, found the shop all old and broken down, so I fixed it up, and now here we are."

Arthur gave him a suspicious stare before he continued eating his dinner.

"Well I'm glad you were able to raise the money for yourself." Francis replied, nudging Arthur, who gave him a slight glare.

Feliks wondered if Arthur's hostility towards Francis was because of him, or because of some family dispute. He hoped Francis and Arthur weren't having any relationship problems, or anything of that sort.

Arthur turned to Toris, "How was work, Toris?" he said, Feliks sighing in relief at the change of subject.

Toris smiled. "Work was normal today."

"So you weren't locked in this time?" Francis questioned, making himself, Arthur and Alfred laugh.

Toris chuckled. "No, no, not this time."

Feliks was sure that he was missing information. "This time?" He asked.

Toris groaned, rubbing his eyes. "This one time, I was cleaning an older woman's house, and she locked me in. I didn't notice until I was finished with the room, though."

Feliks narrowed his eyes. "What did you do?"

"I... climbed out the window." Toris said awkwardly.

Feliks laughed. "Some old woman locked you in her house?"

Toris nodded. "Yes, I know it's hard to believe, but it happened." He shrugged, "I wasn't hurt or anything, but I never went back there."

"People are crazy." Feliks concluded.

Arthur groaned. "Trust me, I know." He looked at Francis, narrowing his eyes.

Francis laughed. " _Je sais que tu m'aimes_."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "No, I put up with you."

Toris and Alfred laughed, while a hurt expression appeared on Francis' face. "You're cruel with your words." He said.

Arthur rolled his eyes again, crossing his arms, although a small smirk appeared on his face. Feliks raised an eyebrow, but decided not to ask about whatever joke Francis and Arthur had made.

Most of the night continued like this, Francis and Arthur playfully bantering back and forth, Feliks, Toris, and Alfred joining in with it, laughing and having fun all night. Feliks noticed multiple times that Matthew would playfully glare at a rude comment from Alfred, or grin while everyone else was laughing and joking. Once, Matthew even gave Alfred a playful kick in the shin, earning a snort of laughter from his parents.

Feliks listened to a couple of humorous war stories from Francis, Arthur, and even one from Toris. He learned that both Arthur and Francis had three brothers, but neither one of them were sure where they were anymore. Feliks told them about his German cousins, earning another suspicious look from Arthur, so he quickly dropped the subject.

But, even with the occasional suspicious glances from Arthur, Feliks had a fun night, and he felt more accepted in the neighborhood. He had began to make friends with Toris' friends, although they were still a bit weary of him.

Feliks laid in his bed, in a completely dark room, the only light coming from the window. He knew that eventually he would have to tell Toris, Francis, Arthur, Alfred and Matthew of his sad, tragic past, for there was only so long that he could keep it in. He sighed and rolled over. For some reason he couldn't get comfortable, so he knew that he'd get little sleep tonight.

"You'll tell Toris soon, Feliks, just… wait a little." He told himself as he repositioned in his bed, closing his eyes.

* * *

 **Translations:**

 _Je sais que tu m'aimes (French)- I know that you love me._

 **I am so, so, so, so, so sorry that I took so long to update DX! This chapter was a last-minute decision on my part, originally this dinner scene was going to take place a few chapters from now, so I didn't have it completely planned out when I decided to move it forward.**

 **Anywho, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, although I believe this came out choppy and rushed (although it took me so long to make it), so I apologise. Here you get a bit more into Arthur's mind and his paranoia, along with Feliks finally getting to know Francis, Arthur, Alfred and Matthew better! Yay!**

 **Once again, I apologise deeply about the horrifically-long wait, but I finally finished! I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

 **~Feliks Out (^J^)**


	12. Not Alright

Chapter 7

 _Not Alright_

Toris didn't sleep well over the night, although nothing strange happened the day before. He had fun with his friends over that the Kirkland house, and they seemed to like Feliks, although Arthur was paranoid, but that would fade. It did when he was befriending Arthur. With a sigh, gaining the motivation to move, Toris sat up from his lying position on his stomach on his bed, and swung his legs over the side. He stood, yawning, wishing that he could just stay in bed. His back ached as he walked, but it faded away.

Toris opened his door, walking out of his room, walking into the slightly cooler air. The cooler air was nice compared to the strangely hot days of this Polish summer. Toris rubbed his eyes as he walked, then stretched, yawning again.

Out of nowhere, he tripped over something and fell face first on the floor, letting out a yelp of surprise. He laid on the ground for a moment, rubbing his face and groaning from the aching pain in his jaw.

"Get your feet off of me." Feliks mumbled into the floor.

Toris turned onto his left elbow, whirling his head to the side to look for Feliks. He saw the strange Pole lying on the floor, curled up into a ball, as he had an old quilt draped over himself. "Feliks!" Toris exclaimed loudly, "What are you doing in the hallway?"

"Sleeping." Feliks yawned, making it sound obvious.

Toris looked from the eccentric Pole and to his room, where he saw the door wide open. Toris scratched his head in confusion, narrowing his eyes. "Feliks," He sighed, "what about your bed?"

Feliks opened his green eyes, staring forward for a long moment. "Too hot." He closed his eyes.

That made sense, the summer had been strangely hot so far, so there was a chance that Feliks wouldn't have been in his cozy room behind a closed door, which held body heat.

"Wait a minute," Toris began, realizing that Feliks could have slept on the couch, "what about the couch? You could've slept there."

Feliks shook his head. "Too soft."

"What?" Toris breathed, looking in the direction of the old, almost broken couch in his living room. "There's nothing comfortable or soft about that old thing." Toris laughed, "I'd bet that a rock is softer than that couch."

Feliks smirked. "How do you know? I'd imagine rocks are pretty uncomfortable."

Toris' smile faded slightly. "Feliks, I'm a veteran of the Eastern Front. I've slept in a snowy trench on top of ice-covered rocks before. I'd rather sleep there than that old couch."

Feliks shrugged. "It's not _that_ bad."

"Yeah, maybe." Toris replied, looking at the couch again. He turned back to Feliks, who had a very strange look in his eye. Feliks was staring down the hall, in the direction of his room, but he didn't seem like he was looking at something. He was just, staring off.

"Feliks, you alright?" Toris asked.

Feliks turned his head to stare at Toris, the same look in his eyes. "Yeah," he waved Toris off, "I'm fine. Just didn't get the best sleep, that's all."

 _He's fine?_ Toris thought. Feliks always expressed the way he's feeling with the words "fabulous," or "amazing," not just _fine._ However, Toris didn't want to pry, so he played along. "Well you slept on the floor, Feliks."

Feliks forced a smile. "I know, that's probably why I'm so tired." He stood, "Now, I'm going to go get some breakfast. You want anything?"

Toris shook his head. "After the huge dinner we ate last night at Francis'? No, I'm not hungry."

Feliks continued walking down the hall. "Alright, suit yourself."

Toris sat on the floor for another moment, before he stood, and walked back to his room to get dressed. He got in a light green button up shirt, and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. He put on a pair of brown trousers, and black shoes. After he walked into the bathroom, brushed his hair and put it in a low tie, he strode to the kitchen, and saw Feliks eating eggs.

Once again, Toris observed that Feliks looked off, but maybe he just wasn't in a good mood? Whatever the reason, Toris didn't have the right to pry, did he? Technically, it was his house that Feliks was staying in, but Feliks also deserved his privacy.

"Is there something wrong?" Feliks asked.

Toris blinked. "Uh…" He shook his head, "no, I'm sorry."

Feliks stared up at him. "What's wrong?"

Toris sighed. "You don't seem your best today, that's all."

"I had a bad night." Feliks replied.

It sounded like Felikis was leaving something out. Although uncomfortable, Toris decided to pry a little. "Feliks, what's wrong?"

"Nothing." The Pole replied, sounding a bit agitated.

 _Maybe you should drop it, Toris, he doesn't feel like talking about it._ "You know that you can talk to me about anything, right?" Toris reminded.

Feliks stared at the table, placed his fork down on the plate and turned to Toris. "What do you want to know?"

Toris was silent for a while, thinking. He sat down opposite of Feliks, who was staring at him with an unreadable expression. "Why were you on the floor in the hallway?"

"Like I said earlier, couldn't get comfortable anywhere else." Feliks explained.

"Why couldn't you get comfortable?"

"I don't know," Feliks shrugged, "just one of those nights?"

Toris nodded, Feliks obviously wanted to drop the subject, so he did. "Alright." He said, standing and turning to walk off. He glanced at Feliks as he did, Feliks still staring in the direction where Toris was sitting.

"Wait." Feliks sighed.

Toris turned to him, raising his eyebrows. "What is it?"

He closed his eyes. "I couldn't get comfortable because my bed was too warm, and the couch was too soft."

"You told me that," Toris recalled, "but how was it _too_ soft?"

Feliks glanced up at the ceiling, then looked to Toris. "During the war, I had to hide, I mean, I'm a Polish, homosexual, Jew, it was very dangerous for me."

Toris' heart sank as he silently begged that Feliks wasn't going to say what he thought he was going to say.

"I went through the entirety of the war without being found," Feliks said to Toris' relief, "but, the entire war I was hidden in a cramped, underground cellar of an old farmer. And from sleeping on the cobblestone floor and all, my bed can feel too soft, and I feel too open."

Toris narrowed his eyebrows. "Too open?"

"I was basically crammed between the wall and boxes for six years. The hallway isn't soft and there's not much space, so… it was really the only place I could get comfortable."

Toris smiled. "Oh," he said, "thank you for telling me, Feliks, it helps my worrying." He paused, "And I'm sorry that you had to hide in the cellar for six years."

Feliks smiled back. "It's better than the alternative." He said in a strange tone.

"Definitely." Toris replied. He glanced to Feliks, who was staring at the table, before he shook his head, stood, and cleaned off his plate without a word.

Toris narrowed his eyes at Feliks. There was still something he wasn't telling Toris, but, Feliks was entitled to his privacy, and Toris shouldn't worry too much. He had to concentrate on working. With a goodbye to Feliks, Toris left his house, and walked further into town.

.

Arthur sat in the old wooden chair as he read his book. There was a peaceful quiet all around him, and it was nice. His sons, Matthew and Alfred, went into town to run a few errands, and practice their Polish— or, well, for Alfred to practice his Polish. As for Francis, he was in the kitchen, cooking dinner. He wasn't making too much noise, so Arthur was still able to concentrate on his book. The open window beside him provided enough sunlight to illuminate the pages so Arthur could read the Polish text. A summer wind blew into the house, slightly disturbing the pages of Arthur's book, and rustling his hair. The wind felt nice, a cooler breeze that came from the east, that was cooling down the hot summer week.

In the kitchen, Francis seemed to grow a bit louder, talking to himself in French. Arthur could understand what his partner was saying, but he didn't feel like translating it in his mind, he was already focusing on doing that with the Polish book he was reading. Francis grew louder again, and Arthur realized what he was saying. He wasn't talking to himself, but singing to himself, and Arthur immediately recognised the tune of the French national anthem. Arthur laughed.

"Is that a humorous book you're reading in there, or are you laughing at me?" Francis asked, interrupting his singing.

"I'm laughing at you." Arthur replied bluntly.

"Why?" Francis began, "You love my singing voice."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "You sound like a dying mule."

"No I don't!" Francis exclaimed.

"Yes you do." Arthur said.

Francis peeked around the corner at him. "I will prove it to you."

"Really?" Arthur challenged, raising his eyebrows, but not looking up from his book. "How will you do that?"

Francis placed the palm of his hand on his chest, stepping further into the room. "Sing, of course! And, naturally, it'll be your favorite song."

"Oh, God, please don't ruin my favorite song with your bad singing."

Right after Arthur said that, Francis began singing a song. It wasn't Arthur's favorite, but it was a close second. After the first few words, he recognised the tune of " _Somewhere in France With You"_ by Al Bowlly. It had been five years since he last heard the short little song that that Francis loved to sing. He and Francis were in France, walking through half-abandoned streets, to the train station, where they found Alfred and Matthew frail, thin, and hungry.

Or on the beach of Normandy, France in 1944, when he was shot and dying, he whispered the song to himself to keep himself conscious and breathing. Arthur felt a slight stab of pain in his abdomen at just the thought of the beach. He could almost smell the saltwater scent mixed with blood.

Or even before that, in the middle of an abandoned street in 1942, as he and Francis walked on patrol, Francis sang the jolly song. As they crossed an alleyway, a sniper shot at them, giving Francis the scar on his cheek, and cutting off the top half of Arthur's left ear. Slowly, Arthur raised his hand to his left ear, rubbing the top of it gingerly with his fingers.

Or basically anytime on the battlefield with Francis. There were so many terrible memories, but Arthur could almost always remember Francis singing something, it was how Francis stayed sane. But after the war, Francis didn't seem to have a reason to sing very much, so he didn't. Although the only times he's heard the short little song was when Francis was humming or singing it during the worst times of Arthur's life, he still felt peaceful at the sound of it. The pain faded from his abdomen, and he lowered his hand from his ear.

"So, how was that?" Francis asked after he finished the song, putting his hands on his hips sassily.

Arthur smiled. "Wonderful, Francis."

.

It was kind of late, the sun already setting as Toris walked home. His house was in sight, so he began walking faster. He had a long day at work because of the people he was cleaning for. It was a nice young couple who didn't bother him, but their children wouldn't leave him alone, asking him about his accent, where he was from, what Lithuania was like, what Russia was like, why he moved to Poland, and basically every other question under the sun.

Toris sighed, closing his eyes. He was glad that he was headed home where he could relax, and even go to bed early because of his tiredness. That sounded nice. After walking up the five creaky, wooden stairs that led to his porch, Toris opened his front door and walked in his house, closing the door behind him. He hung his bag of cleaning supplies on the back of his chair that sat in the dining room.

"Feliks, I'm home." Toris called out, walking into the kitchen and getting himself a glass of water.

"Huh? Oh, w-welcome back." Feliks replied from the other room awkwardly.

Swallowing his water, Toris narrowed his eyebrows. He set the clear glass on the counter and walked to the living room, where he heard Feliks' voice come from. He saw Feliks sitting upright on the couch, but the way he was sitting suggested that he was previously lying down. The Pole was rubbing his eyes, almost like he just woke up.

"Did I wake you?" Toris chuckled.

Dropping his hand, Feliks looked up to Toris. "Uh," he chuckled as well, "yes, actually."

"I'm sorry." Toris apologised, taking his shoes off.

Feliks waved him off. "No, it's totally fine, I should be awake anyway."

Toris shrugged. "Alright." He walked off into his room and dropped his shoes on the floor beside his nightstand. He took the tie out of his hair and placed the tie on his nightstand.

"So how was work?" Toris asked as he walked down the hall.

Feliks turned his head to Toris with a gloomy expression in his eye, but he forced it away, and faked a smile. "Pretty normal, I guess. Matthew and Alfred came in and talked to me some. They were in there a while now that I think about it."

"How are they?" Toris questioned, "I didn't see them on my way to or from work today." He added.

Feliks scrunched up his face a little. "I'm not the best at reading people, but I think I may have sensed some passive-aggression between the two," He shrugged, "or maybe it's just me."

Toris thought about it and realized that the twins did seem a bit passive-aggressive to one another, especially Alfred to Matthew. "Now that I think about it, yeah, they do seem to be on each others nerves."

"I hope nothing's going on." Feliks commented.

"Me too." Toris said, turning and going into the kitchen and prepared dinner.

Dinner seemed long because of the lack of conversation. It was unlike Feliks to be so quiet, especially for the entire day, but, like usual, Feliks ate his entire serving of dinner and then some. After dinner, Feliks left the house to go and get something he left at his shop, which left Toris alone in the house to read his book, and nod off as he did so.

With the long and exhausting day at work, along with whatever stress was going on with Feliks, and now the stress that Feliks pointed out about the Kirkland twins was making Toris worry, when he wasn't even sure if he needed to. Maybe Alfred and Matthew were homesick or cooped up in their house. Maybe Feliks only had a bad night last night. Maybe Toris had nothing to worry about? He doubted that. His life had been way too complicated so far, it wouldn't suddenly get easier.

The front door creaked open, which made Toris jump and quickly turn in the direction of the sound, only to see Feliks entering the house, carrying his bag over his shoulder.

"You alright, Toris?" Feliks asked.

Toris sighed, "Yeah, you just took me off guard, that's all."

"I'm sorry." Feliks apologised, walking into the house and quickly walking down the hall, but stopping in front of his room. He sighed, tossing the bag in the dark bedroom, and slowly walked back down the hall, his eyes closed, and his head slightly down.

Toris could no longer hide his concern, and he didn't care if he was prying, he had to know how to help his friend. "Feliks—"

"What's wrong?" The Pole interrupted, "I was just about to talk to you about that."

Toris blinked, and scooted over on the couch to give Feliks room to sit next to him.

Feliks sat down, and stared at the floor. "Toris, I lied to you earlier." He stated.

A small amount of anger filled Toris at the confession, but he had to also realize the tone in Feliks' voice. This sounded hard to say. "Okay." Toris said, prompting Feliks to continue speaking.

"But I don't know how to tell you the truth."

Toris was confused at Feliks' answer, until he remembered that English was Feliks' second or third language. Maybe he couldn't find the correct words in his head? "You can say it in Polish if it's easier, I can speak Polish very fluently."

Feliks chuckled and shook his head. "No, Toris, I know how to say it in English, I just can't say it."

Toris narrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"I can't figure out how to say it." Feliks restated.

"Just say it then, you don't need to sugar-coat it." Toris replied.

Feliks closed his eyes tightly and said nothing. He reached down to his left sleeve and opened his eyes. "Don't freak out, okay?"

Toris noticed that Feliks looked almost scared, so a small amount of fear filled his own chest. "Okay…" Toris replied uncertainly.

Feliks pulled up his sleeve with his eyes closed and turned it to where Toris could see the inside of his forearm. Tattooed in black ink on Feliks' arm were six numbers.

With a quick inhale, Toris covered his mouth with one hand. He had no idea what to say to Feliks, he was completely speechless. But he had to say something, right?

"I told you that I stayed hidden the entire war, but that's not true." Feliks said, "The SS found me in late 1941, I was in there for four years, when the Russians liberated us in 1945."

Toris still had no idea what to say. He wanted to apologise to Feliks for everything that he had gone through, be he still couldn't find his voice.

Feliks sighed. "I just wanted to tell you. I mean, you told me that you were in the war, so I thought you deserved to know. And plus, I'm living here, so you would've found out somehow."

Slowly Toris lowered his hand from his mouth. "Feliks… I am so, so sorry."

Feliks shook his head, waving him off. "Don't be, it's not your fault."

"No, Feliks, I… I don't even know what to say…" Toris exhaled.

"You don't have to say anything." Feliks replied. "I just thought you deserved to know."

"Feliks, you don't have to shrug it off," Toris began, "I can't relate, but I saw it."

Feliks narrowed his eyebrows. "What?"

Toris cleared his throat. "I helped liberate some of the camps." He paused, "I was relieved of my duties, though, because just _seeing_ it messed my head up so bad. I couldn't imagine living through it."

Feliks stared at the ground. "I'm sorry you saw all of that."

Toris shook his head. "Don't be, that's nothing compared to what you went through."

"Toris—"

"Feliks," Toris interrupted, "in the military, I've seen some strong men who've lived through a lot, but it's nothing compared to you."

Feliks shook his head. "I'm not that strong."

"You lived through _that!_ " Toris exclaimed.

"I know, Toris."

"I know that I couldn't have." Toris added.

Feliks took a long moment to reply. "Thank you, Toris."

"Feliks," Toris began, "if you ever need anything, or to talk, tell me. I don't care if it's in the middle of the night, you wake me up."

Feliks smiled slightly. "Thank you, Toris, but I don't like talking about it."

"I could imagine," Toris replied, "but I'm just giving you the option."

"Thank you." Feliks said again. "And I'm sorry I lied to you earlier."

Toris shook his head. "Don't be, that's a sensible reason to lie."

There was a long silence between the two of them before Feliks spoke. "Weren't you going to go to bed early, tonight?"

"What?"

"During dinner, you told me that you were going to go to bed early." Feliks explained.

"Right," Toris recalled, "yes I was going to." He stood to walk off, "Unless you need me to stay up?"

Feliks shook his head. "No, I'm going to head to bed soon, I think."

"Okay." Toris said, "Goodnight, Feliks."

"Goodnight, Toris."

.

It had been an hour and a half since Toris went to bed, but Feliks doubted that he was actually asleep. Feliks wanted to sleep, he was just as tired as he was when he woke up in the hospital after liberation. But, he knew he wasn't going to sleep anytime soon.

He laid in his bed that was once again, too warm, and too soft. Feliks had already threw his comforter off himself, but he was still warm. He could deal with the softness of the bed, though, he had been for five years.

But just telling Toris what he went through brought the terrible memories back, and they played in his head over, and over again. He wanted to cry, but he had to remember that they were just memories. It was in the past. He survived it all, he shouldn't dread on it, right?

Feliks sighed, closing his eyes and allowing a few warm tears fall. He didn't sleep that night.

* * *

 **FEELS, right?**

 **Finally, Toris knows what's up. But, at least there was some cute FrUK in the middle, right?**

 **Sorry this took a while to update, this seems to be my slowest-moving story currently.**

 **Anywho, I hope you liked the chapter, although the beginning was too choppy and fast-paced**

 **~Feliks Out! (^J^)**


	13. In the Hospital, Part 1

Chapter 8

In the Hospital, Part 1

Normandy, France

 _There was a harsh wind blowing in Francis' face as he walked back to the beach. He stared at the red waves as he walked in silence. He couldn't believe that such a brutal battlefield could ever be this quiet, even as the waves roared in the distance, and injured men screamed in pain. Bodies and blood could be found everywhere, and the stench of corpse was strong, but it didn't phase him. After everything he's seen that day, nothing would be able to phase him, especially after this._

 _Francis knew he was going against orders by doing this, going back to the beach when he wasn't supposed to, but he promised he would. He promised he'd come back, and here he was, in the exact place all hell broke loose, and the love of his life was shot and probably dead._ No, _Francis thought,_ Arthur promised he'd be here. He's too stubborn to die. _Francis begged Arthur's will would be enough to save him._

 _He stopped and just stood, unsure why he did. He stared at the blood red waves in the distance, and closed his eyes. He wanted to collapse where he stood and fall asleep, but he doubted that he would be able to clear the memories out of his head long enough to do so. He looked down to the sandy ground and finally realized why he had stopped. This was the exact place where he had left Arthur, but where was he?_

" _It's not like he could've gotten far." Francis whispered to himself, looking around. It was somewhat relieving to see that Arthur wasn't still here because if he was, that meant he hadn't gotten help, or he died._

 _So, Arthur didn't die, or at least, Arthur didn't die here. Francis saw a tent in the distance with the green cross on top, the symbol of a medical tent. He doubted that Arthur was still alive, or that Arthur would've made it there, but he had to try and find him, didn't he? With the little energy he still had in him, Francis forced his legs to move forward, and to the tent._

 _He strolled up, seeing men lying outside the tent groaning in pain. It wasn't just pain, it was that kind of pain that you just couldn't keep still, but it hurt to move. Francis walked by, trying not to stare. He walked in the tent, glancing around, hoping to find Arthur easily._

 _A nurse was hurriedly walking by, then she stopped in front of Francis. "Sir, is there something that you need?"_

 _Francis stared at her for a moment, deciding if he wanted her help looking for Arthur, or not. "Yes, is there a Arthur Kirkland around here?"_

 _The nurse glanced around. "He's over on that side," She began, pointing, "you may go and look, but don't bother him too much."_

" _Thank you," Francis said, "and I won't bother him."_

 _He wasn't planning on bothering Arthur anyway, he needed to heal and get rest. Francis was unbelievably relieved at the news that Arthur was still alive. He walked in the direction the nurse pointed, staying out of the way of the doctors as he did so. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Arthur._

 _Arthur looked absolutely dead. He was pale, and it didn't seem like he was breathing. His abdomen was covered in blood, more so than it was the last time he saw him. Francis bent down beside Arthur, kneeling next to him and closed his eyes. Arthur was dead, but he should've expected this. Yes, he was in the medical tent, but that didn't mean he was safe, the doctors probably didn't even know yet._

 _Francis opened his eyes and looked to his love's pale face, fighting tears. It wasn't fair, he survived all of this, he survived everything, and Arthur was dead. But he should've expected this, if there was anything he's learned throughout the war, it's that the world is cruel, and cold, and cares nothing of the good people that suffer._

 _Not caring that anyone would see, Francis grabbed Arthur's hand. "At least you're out of the war, and in peace." He whispered._

 _Francis released Arthur's hand, considering whether or not to leave. He shouldn't be back at the beach, but he needed to come, only to find that he had nothing back here. He should leave, go back to the front, find some captain or officer and tell them he got separated from his officer, which wasn't a complete lie, he did get separated from Alistair._

 _He stood to leave, and if he found Alistair, he'd give him the news of Arthur. Saying a final goodbye to Arthur in his head, Francis tried to turn away, but he couldn't. He couldn't leave Arthur like this, sure he was dead, but he was alone. No, he wasn't. He would be with Lukas now, so he wasn't alone. Disobeying his own thoughts, Francis knelt back down beside Arthur. He wanted to run his fingers through his hair, it always calmed him, but he couldn't. Not with so many people around._

 _Out of the corner of his eye, Francis saw Arthur's leg move slightly. He looked down to Arthur's leg, then back up to his face, that was twisted in pain. He was alive after all. As he woke, Arthur showed more signs of discomfort, and when he gained consciousness, he was calling out in pain._

 _Francis put his hand on Arthur's shoulder comfortingly. "Shh, Arthur, it's okay, I'm here."_

 _Tears were rolling down Arthur's face and disappearing in his hairline, but he quieted down, his body quivering in the agony he was in. Francis had never seen Arthur cry, and it broke him to see it now. He rubbed Arthur's shoulder, being cautious not to hurt him._

 _Arthur slightly opened his eyes, looking around in confusion._

" _Arthur." Francis said quietly, barely hearing his own voice. "Arthur, cher, it's Francis."_

 _Barely moving his head, Arthur's eyes locked on him. He stared for a long moment, blinking away tears of pain. "Fran...cis…?"_

 _A large smile appeared on Francis' face, immediately relieved that Arthur recognised him. "Yes, it's me. How—" He stopped himself from asking that stupid question, Arthur was obviously feeling terrible, he was_ crying _._

" _Where…?" Arthur asked, closing his eyes tightly, and hissing in pain._

" _You're in a medical tent." Francis answered._

" _Where?"_

" _On the beach…" Francis began, "Normandy, France."_

 _Arthur stared at the top of the tent directly above him for a long moment. He closed his eyes tightly again. "Damn."_

 _Francis knew that Arthur was hoping that he was in a war hospital in London, his home, not a corpse-covered beach. Or was Arthur hoping that he was dead? No, Arthur had too much will, he didn't want to die, right?_

" _Where's Lukas… Allie?" Arthur asked._

 _Francis froze, staring down at Arthur. He couldn't just tell him that Lukas was dead, and he couldn't just tell him that he had no clue if Alistair was alive or not. Who knows what that would do to his condition. "I got separated from them, but you don't need to worry, Lukas and Alistair can take care of themselves."_

 _Arthur sighed in relief, and it seemed the pain was fading, but that wasn't a good thing, he was either dying or falling unconscious._

" _Is he awake?"_

 _Francis looked up to the nurse who spoke. She was a different nurse than the one he talked to earlier. "Yes," Francis replied, "but I think he's fading unconscious."_

 _She knelt down beside Arthur. "Arthur, you need some water."_

 _Arthur closed his eyes, but nodded._

" _Can you help me sit him up?" The nurse asked._

" _Yes, what do you need me to do?"_

" _I'll lift him by the shoulders, you support his head." She ordered._

 _Francis nodded, sliding closer to his Englishman. The nurse tucked her arm beneath Arthur's shoulders, and Francis held his head in his hands. Arthur called out in pain at the nurse barely sitting him up. The nurse put a canteen to his lips, and he drank the water, but not much. She gave him a few sips, and lifted the canteen from him. The nurse lowered Arthur to the ground, and Francis followed her movements until Arthur was lying on the ground again._

 _When Arthur was back down on the ground, he slowly relaxed into unconsciousness. Francis sighed, taking off his helmet and running his fingers through his dirty, muddy hair._

" _Sir, I don't wish to bother you, but are you injured?" The nurse questioned._

 _Francis shook his head. "No, I'm not hurt."_

" _I'm going to have to ask you to leave, then." She stated, "We have very limited space in here, and what we do have should be for those who are injured."_

 _Forcing his legs to work, Francis stood. "I apologize, I just needed to know that my friend was alive."_

" _It's okay, sir." The nurse walked over hurriedly._

 _Still standing where he was, he looked back down to Arthur, his poor Englishman in so much pain. "Stay with me, cher. Please stay with me." Francis begged quietly before he turned and exited the tent._

 _He walked past the men lying on the ground in the sand outside the tent, he walked past the corpses scattered about, and he didn't dare look behind him to the sea. He just walked away from it all, silently praying for Arthur._

 _He stopped in the sand and looked up to the sky. "Watch over him for me, Lukas."_

 _._

London, England

 _For the first time in the whole war, Francis was on leave. It was just under a week long, and he was relieved. He was out of the stress of France, and in the lively capital of England, but he wasn't happy. He was supposed to be spending his leave with Arthur, not alone and depressed. It was nice to be out of the war, even if it was only going to be a week long, but he was supposed to be with Arthur._

 _It was his fourth day of leave, and he only felt worse. For the past three days, he had searched in different war hospitals for Arthur, praying that he'd be there. He had his doubts, though, Arthur had been shot and was on the brink of death the last time Francis had seen him, and it's been two months. Arthur was probably dead. He probably didn't even make it to London. He probably didn't even make it off the beach of Normandy._

 _But Francis had to try. He was currently walking down the sidewalk, heading to another war hospital. Although his worry about Arthur, it was refreshing to be in London. Yes, London was bombed, but it was still lively with nationalism._

 _The hospital was in sight, and Francis' chest tightened slightly. He was scared that Arthur wouldn't be there. If the wasn't there, Francis wouldn't know where he'd be. There was probably other hospitals, but Francis didn't know where they were, nor did he have much time to search for them, or search for Arthur. He walked in the door, and to the front desk. There was a woman in a nurses uniform behind the desk, writing things down and glancing from paper to paper._

" _Excuse me." Francis said kindly, lightening his accent he spoke._

" _Yes?" She asked, not even looking up to him._

" _I'm looking for someone, could you help me?"_

 _The nurse looked up at him. "Does this person have a name?"_

 _Francis chuckled. "Yes, his name is Arthur Kirkland."_

 _Without a word the nurse searched a few clipboards and papers for Arthur's name. Francis doubted she would find it, just like in the other hospitals, but Arthur was worth the try. He deflated slightly at the amount of time it was taking for her to find Arthur's name, and he prepared himself for disappointment._

" _Arthur Kirkland is in room four-twenty-three." She said simply._

 _Francis fixed his stare on her. "Wait, he's alive?"_

 _The nurse stared at him. "According to earlier today."_

" _How is he?" Francis exclaimed._

 _She leaned back in her chair. "That's confidential to you. Unless you're family?"_

" _No, just a friend." Francis replied, his voice trailing off. "Room four-twenty-three?"_

" _Yes."_

 _Francis smiled brightly, fighting tears of happiness. "Thank you. May I visit him?"_

" _If not I would've told you."_

" _Of course." Francis agreed, "Thank you."_

 _She went back to the documents on her desk. "You're welcome, sir."_

 _As Francis walked down the hall, and upstairs, he couldn't help but notice that his pace had quickened. Hope was growing inside him, hope that he thought he lost on Normandy. The Allies were winning the war, and Arthur was alive. The only way his life could be better is if his friends, like Lukas and Drac, were still alive, and his brothers weren't fighting on The Axis' side._

 _By the time he reached room four-twenty-three, he was nearly jogging. He stopped at the closed door, staring at it. He didn't know how Arthur was, only that he was alive. He closed his eyes with a sigh, preparing himself for the worst. Francis knocked on the door, expecting no answer._

" _Come in."_

 _His eyes widened in awe, but as he processed what he heard, it didn't sound like Arthur. He grabbed the handle, turned it, and entered the room. Arthur was in a bed to the left, motionless. Francis walked further into the room, and saw his Englishman's eyes closed, and his face pale. Luckily this time, Francis could tell that he was breathing. He looked unconscious or asleep, which didn't make sense, who invited him in?_

" _Uh, excuse me? Could you open the curtain?" An accented voice asked in a kind tone._

 _Francis turned around and saw the white curtain. He walked around it, and saw a young, long brown haired man with green eyes, lying in a bed. "Arthur's asleep right now—"_

" _I know, the nurses and doctors won't listen to me." The man replied, "Art is stubborn to a fault, and I need to watch after him."_

 _Francis chuckled at the truth in the patient's statement. "Trust me, I know, but if the nurses closed the curtain, then I should keep it closed."_

" _Come on, please, he worries me." The man pleaded._

 _Francis stared at the brunette. He couldn't imagine if someone tried to keep him away from Arthur, but then again, he has a different relationship with Arthur than this brunette. He finally sighed, giving in. "Fine, but if I get in trouble with the nurses, it's your fault." Francis joked._

 _The brunette laughed. "I'll take full responsibility."_

 _Francis opened the curtain, and sat down in a chair that was between Arthur's bed, and the brunette's bed. He glanced at the brunette, noticing that facially, he looked an awful lot like his older brother, Antonio. It surprisingly hurt just to think of his ecstatic older brother, especially after the last time they spoke. He closed his eyes to force away the memory, and looked back to the longer haired brunette._

 _His eyes focused on the patient's right leg, and his heart sank. He couldn't be for sure, but just how the blankets were folded over him, it looked like he was missing his right leg from the knee down. Francis looked away, trying not to stare._

" _So," The brunette began, "what's your name?"_

" _Francis Bonnefoy." He introduced with a smile._

" _You're Francis?" The brunette exclaimed, "Arthur talks about you a lot."_

 _Francis smiled. "Really? That's…" He trailed off, turning his head over to his Englishman and stared at him. "That's touching."_

" _Anyway, I'm Joao." He stretched out his hand for Francis to shake._

 _Francis shook his hand. "It's nice to meet you, Joao. If you don't mind, where are you from? I noticed your accent."_

" _Lisbon, Portugal." Joao said, placing his hand on his lap._

 _Francis glanced down at Joao's leg, then back to him. "You came all the way from Portugal to help? Why?"_

 _Joao's eyes focused on the wall past Francis. "Fascism was becoming a problem, and although it didn't seem that Spain was going to invade or anything, it was still a bit unnerving. I felt like I needed to do something."_

 _Francis glanced back down to Joao's leg. "Well, thank you for your service, and everything you've sacrificed."_

 _Joao stared at his leg for a moment. He shrugged. "What else was I going to do? Wait it out?"_

" _Many people are." Francis replied._

" _You have a point." Joao agreed._

 _Francis turned his head to Arthur with a sigh. He wanted to hold his poor Englishman's hand, but he couldn't. Sure, the door was closed, but Joao was there, and with the curtain open, Joao would see. Then again, Joao would also see him staring at Arthur. He closed his eyes._

" _By the way, Francis, if it's any easier for you, Arthur told me about you two."_

 _Francis opened his eyes and turned his head back to the Portuguese man. "About us? What do you mean?"_

" _You know,_ together _." Joao said, emphasising the last word._

 _Francis didn't want to make assumptions, just in case he was assuming wrong. "I'm not sure what you mean."_

 _Joao leaned closer. "You know, queer." He whispered._

" _He did?" Francis asked, slightly nervous._

 _Joao smiled reassuringly. "Trust me, Francis, I don't care. I've survived way too much to care."_

 _Francis glanced down to Joao's leg, forgetting to be discrete with it. "I could imagine."_

" _You're talking about my leg, aren't you?"_

" _What?" Francis asked, pretending he didn't notice Joao's leg. "What's wrong with you leg?"_

 _Joao had an emotionless look on his face. "Francis, I saw the look on your face when you noticed it. I was just wondering how long it would take for you to bring it up."_

 _Francis gave a kind smile, trying to reassure Joao that everything would be fine. "If you don't mind me asking, how did it happen?"_

" _Explosion." Joao said simply. He chuckled, "It's strange, I got past all that shit on the beach, just to get my leg blown off anyway."_

The beach, _Francis thought. He knew that Joao was talking about Normandy, where everything went to hell. "I'm so sorry about your leg. I couldn't even imagine what you're going through."_

" _It's okay. Well—" He trailed off. "I will be okay. I'm not yet, but I'll… I'll figure out how to live with it." Joao nodded, "Yes, I'll figure it out."_

 _Francis smiled. "I hope you can. And—"_

 _Francis' attention was drawn to the sound of Arthur moving in his bed. Like a dog who hasn't seen its owner in days, Francis quickly went over to Arthur, who was still waking. He looked back to Joao with a guilty expression. He just left in the middle of their conversation._

" _Sorry, Joao—"_

" _It's fine." He reassured, "Could you just close the curtains for me? I want to give you two some privacy."_

" _Are you sure?"_

" _Yes, yes, the last time you saw each other was on that beach, right?" Joao asked._

" _Oui."_

" _I'll give you privacy." Joao grabbed a newspaper from off the table beside him._

" _Thank you." Francis replied, closing the curtain. He walked back to his seat and sat down, leaned forward, and picked up Arthur's hand. "Arthur, chéri, wake up."_

 _Arthur stared at him for a moment. "Francis?"_

 _Tears filled his eyes. "Yes, Arthur, it's me."_

" _You're alive?" Arthur asked, disbelief in his voice._

" _Yes, I'm right here." Francis reassured. "How are you?"_

 _Arthur stared at him. "I hurt."_

 _Francis guessed that was an understatement so he wouldn't worry, but he needed the truth. He sounded bad, it's been two months, and Francis expected Arthur to be better than he looked. "I'm sorry."_

 _Arthur cleared his throat. "How are you? You're not hurt, are you?"_

 _Francis shook his head. "No, Arthur, I'm fine."_

" _That's good." Arthur stated, his voice becoming louder as he woke._

 _Francis glanced to the window that was beside Arthur. It was nice of them to put him by the window. He looked back to Arthur. "How are you?"_

 _Arthur smiled. "You already asked that."_

 _Francis closed his eyes. "I did, didn't I?" He sighed, "I'm sorry. I've just been worrying for so long."_

" _It's okay, Francis. I hope you didn't worry yourself too sick."_

 _Francis shrugged. "I was very scared for you."_

" _You didn't distract yourself, did you?" Arthur asked in a protective tone._

" _No." Francis reassured, shaking his head. "What do the doctors say about your condition?"_

 _Arthur stared at him, then looked over to the window, which immediately worried Francis. Arthur took a deep breath, his face twisting in pain slightly. "They're not sure."_

 _Francis narrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"_

" _I'm doing well right now, but not improving." Arthur began, turning his head back to Francis. "I was improving, but I plateaued, which I guess is better than declining."_

" _Okay." Francis said cautiously._

" _The reason I'm not better than I am is because of the medics on Normandy." Arthur explained. "Even for on field medics, they did a terrible job removing the bullet. They added damage to what was already there, and it's actually a miracle that I survived the surgery, let alone alive now."_

 _That wasn't something that Francis wanted to hear. He wanted Arthur to tell him that he was going to be fine, and pull through. Would be home in a month or two, and be waiting for him, not this. With a sigh, Francis glanced to the ceiling, then back to Arthur. "Are you going to pull through?"_

" _I don't know." Arthur said. "It depends on how I get out of this plateau. If I get better, and continue, I'll be fine. If I decline, and continue, I'll… I'll die."_

 _Francis rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. "What are the chances of you getting worse?"_

 _Arthur shrugged. "I don't know, Francis. All I know is that I have a big chance of not surviving this. Little things could hinder my recovery, also."_

" _What do you mean?"_

" _If someone gave me bad news, or if I'm stubborn and sit up before I'm supposed to." Arthur explained._

 _Francis raised his right eyebrow. The last part of Arthur's statement was oldly detailed. "That's strangely specific."_

 _Arthur had a guilty expression on his face before he closed his eyes. "It was about a week ago, I was stubborn and not listening to the nurses. I sat up before I was supposed to, and sent myself back about a week and a half of recovery."_

" _Just by sitting up?" Francis asked his Englishman in a concerned tone._

" _Francis, I told you, the medics added damage that the bullet created. My abdominal muscles are torn to hell."_

 _Francis picked up Arthur's hand and kissed it. "My poor Englishman."_

 _Arthur smiled. "You don't need to worry about me, no matter what the doctors say, I'm too damn stubborn to die."_

" _I know." Francis just prayed that Arthur was right. He swallowed hard, knowing what he had to tell Arthur next, but he was now scared to. Earlier Arthur had said that anything could hinder his recovery, including bad news, and he had pretty devastating news for his love. Should he wait? No, what if he doesn't return, then Arthur would never get the news. Francis sighed. He needed to tell Arthur, no matter what._

" _Arthur." Francis said slowly, gaining the courage to give him the news._

" _Yes?"_

 _Francis paused. "I have some bad news."_

 _Arthur took a long breath, raising his head slightly. "Alright, what is it?"_

" _During the battle, Lukas and I got separated from Alistair and the rest of our squadron." He took a deep breath, "We fought hard, moving in the same direction, hoping to later catch up with them." Francis closed his eyes. "But, Lukas didn't make it."_

 _Arthur deflated, a look of horror and devastation on his face. "What? No." He shook his head. "No, Lukas— he… he can't be…"_

" _I'm so sorry, Arthur." Francis said in a soothing tone._

" _How? How did he go?" Arthur gunted, closing his eyes tightly._

" _Arthur, calm down."_

" _How did he die?" Arthur exclaimed, grunting again, and clutching the wound on his abdomen._

 _Francis sighed. "As we were running, Lukas was shot in the back. He quickly figured out that he was paralyzed from the waist down. He talked me into leaving him, because he couldn't keep going. When I came back for him, he was… gone."_

 _Tears rolled down Arthur's face. "Dammit, Lukas!" He exclaimed through grit teeth. Arthur's pain was obviously intensifying._

" _Arthur, please, calm down. Don't hurt yourself." Francis pleaded._

" _Dammit, Lukas, you promised." Arthur whispered, before he faded into unconsciousness._

 _Francis stared at Arthur, fear filling him. Tears rolled down his face. "Arthur, please, wake up." He begged, shaking his shoulder lightly. There was no response._

" _Hey, what's happening over there?" Joao called from the other side of the curtain._

 _Francis stood and walked around the curtain. "I gave him some bad news."_

 _There was anger in Joao's eyes. "Why? I heard him say that it would hinder his recovery!"_

" _I know, Joao, but he needed to know. It was his best friend, and…" Francis paused, "if I didn't come back, then he would never know."_

 _Joao closed his eyes and took a deep breath, anger fading from him. "You're right."_

" _Thank you for understanding, Joao." Francis replied. "And thank you for looking after him."_

 _Joao shrugged. "It's no problem, he's my friend, why wouldn't I?"_

" _Thank you." Francis said before looking down at his watch. "I should get going, though. I'll be back tomorrow."_

" _Alright, see you then." Joao smiled._

 _Francis opened the curtain before he left, knowing that Joao would ask for it to be opened. "Get rest, Joao, and feel better."_

 _Joao looked at him with an emotionless stare. "I'll try."_

 _Francis smiled and closed the door as he walked off. That conversation could've gone much better, but it also could've gone much worse. With the bad news of Arthur's possible death, and the way Arthur took Lukas' death, Francis felt terrible. He shook his head and continued walking, knowing that he would have to say goodbye to Arthur tomorrow._

* * *

 **Translations**

 **Cher (French)- Dear**

 **Oui (French)- Yes**

 **Chéri (French)- Darling, honey, beloved**

 **In the second part of this chapter, you meet Joao (Portugal). I hope I wrote him correctly, and I hope you liked the chapter overall. Also, Joao uses the term "queer" to describe Arthur and Francis' relationship. I meant no offense in using the word queer, it was the term most people used for homosexuals then. If the slang is inaccurate, please, please tell me, and I will change it, but once again, I do not mean to offend.**

 **This entire chapter was a memory of Francis', and I'm going to tell you, this isn't going to be the only chapter like this. I am planning at least three more, but they'll be seen later in the story. I hope everything I wrote was accurate, and if not, please let me know in the comments.**

 **~Feliks Out! (^J^)**


	14. A Generally Good Day

_**Author's note:**_

 _To all my readers, first off, I'm going to apologize. This story is taking much more time than I originally thought it would. Like I've probably said before, although this is fanfiction, I stress to be accurate. In this fic, I am portraying World War Two, how it affected the characters, and how PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) is affecting the characters. Living in America, my knowledge on the European impact of World War Two is limited, at least where I live (because the school system is quite narcissistic about history), especially post-WWII Poland, which is, obviously, the setting of the fic. Because of this I've had to do research on the PTSD, and the war, to portray it accurately, and it takes more time to build the chapters than I speculated, which is the reason for the recent hiatus this fic was on._

 _However, said hiatus is finally over, and it relieves me to say that it is. This chapter doesn't necessarily have much angst, or mentions of the war, but I did struggle to write it because I have newer topics I need to introduce, and build up to. Plus, I have future chapters to plan out, and I like to have an idea of what I'm writing next before I send out this chapter._

 _Once again, I am terribly sorry for the hiatus, I hope won't happen again, but I can't promise that it won't, because of the necessary research. Also, as always, these chapters will take longer to write, but hopefully not as long._

 _Anyway, I'll stop talking now, enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 9

A Generally Good Day

If Toris was completely honest with himself, he had expected Feliks to be much more, well, normal. It was kind of mean to say, but when he got up this morning, he didn't expect such a surprise. Which was why Toris was currently standing at the end of the hallway, his right hand on the wall, staring at Feliks as he dozed on the couch… in a skirt?

 _No,_ Toris thought, shaking his head, _no, that's not a skirt, those are just really, really, baggy pants._ He rolled his eyes at himself, _Yeah, and Eduard and Ravis are still alive,_ he thought sarcastically. With a heavy sigh, he rubbed his hands on his face, and walked away, headed into the kitchen to make lunch for himself.

"Why is he in a skirt?" Toris whispered, glancing up at the ceiling, "I swear, I'll never understand that guy."

After making and eating lunch, Toris began to read the newspaper, but was more staring at the page, rather than reading. He was beginning to grow frustrated with himself. So what if Ravis' death date was coming up, it didn't mean he shouldn't be able to concentrate. He set the newspaper on the table with a groan, and leaned forward, setting his elbows on the table, and his head in his hands.

So this is how today would be, him zoning out, just like most years. He would think about his old friend, the last moments with him, then, in a few days, he would mourn on his death date, then attempt to keep him in good memory. He raised his head from his hands and glanced up to the ceiling again, "How are you, Ravis?" Toris asked in his native language, so Feliks wouldn't hear, almost like his late friend would answer. After a moment of silence, he lowered his stare to the table, "I'm not doing too well," He admitted, "but, you can probably tell."

"Who's Ravis?" Feliks' sudden voice made Toris jump in his chair, and turn in the Pole's direction.

"What?" Toris responded, looking Feliks in the eye.

"You mentioned a Ravis," Feliks began to explain, "who's Ravis?"

Toris' eyes lowered to the floor, "He's a friend of mine, or… was."

Feliks seemed to ponder what Toris has said to him, as he hummed quietly, just as he usually does when he's thinking. The Pole looked back to Toris, "Did you two get into a fight or something?"

Toris shook his head, "I lost him in the war."

"Oh." Feliks replied, before he was quiet for a long moment, playing with his skirt a little, "I'm sorry."

Toris, again, got distracted by the skirt, as the same question came to his mind " _why was he wearing a skirt?_ " He cleared his throat, turning his attention back to Feliks, looking him in the eye, "It's alright, Feliks, it's been a few years."

Feliks gave a puzzled look as he shifted his weight, and leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen, "But you said that you weren't doing well."

Toris was surprised at that reply, he didn't know that Feliks heard that much of his conversation with himself, let alone understand Lithuanian, "You know Lithuanian?"

"Yeah," Feliks replied almost immediately, "my closest neighbor when I was a kid was from Lithuania. When I was too young to work on my parent's wheat farm, I didn't have much to do except help my mom around the house," He explained, "I was interested in learning the language, so whenever I had the free time, I would go over to my neighbor's and he'd teach me. Of course, I'd have to repay him somehow, and since he was old, he couldn't really do all the chores around his house, so I would."

Toris tilted his head to the side, "How good is your Lithuanian?"

Feliks shrugged, "Pretty good, I'm a bit rusty because of lack of practice, but I can understand it just fine, I have a bit trouble speaking it though. I have a huge accent, too."

It was very convenient that Feliks didn't only know Polish, so Toris could freely speak his native language to him, but that also meant he couldn't talk to himself, which was a downside, "That's good." He replied.

Feliks awkwardly nodded, seemingly unsure how to respond.

"Okay, I have to ask," Toris began, glancing back down to Feliks' pink skirt, "why are you wearing a skirt?"

Feliks looked down to it, then back up to Toris, "It's comfy."

 _It's comfy?_ Toris thought, _who would even think of wearing one, though?_ He blinked a few times, then asked, "That's the only reason, it's comfortable?"

Feliks looked down to the floor, "Well, I didn't tell you, but I… sometimes, on occasion, cross-dress."

Saying that Toris was surprised would be an understatement. Sure, Feliks was definitely the strangest person he's met, but this time Feliks out-did himself. He blinked, trying to figure out some way to reply.

"I…" Feliks began, looking to the floor, "I don't have to, though, I can stop."

Toris saw the disappointment in the Pole's strange green eyes, he looked like a kicked puppy. "Uh," He began awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, "you can if you want to," be paused, "It'll take some getting used to, but it should be fine."

"You sure?" Feliks asked, glancing back up at him.

"Yeah," Toris replied, nodding, "a bit of warning would've been nice, but yeah, it'll be fine."

Feliks smiled, "Thanks, Toris."

Toris was once again confused. Not at what Feliks had said, but more at himself. When Feliks smiled the way he did, it was almost… beautiful? _No,_ Toris denied, _no, you're just glad to not see him disappointed._ He rubbed his hands on his face again. _Ravis, Eduard, help me, what am I thinking?_

.

Francis was lounging on his day off. It was Sunday, which meant no work. Sure, he wasn't the most religious now, but he always appreciated having Sundays off. He sat on the couch next to Arthur, who was promptly reading a book, as always.

But it wasn't really sitting _next to_ Arthur, more like lying down on him, and Arthur dealing with it. Francis had his feet on the arm of the couch, and was lying his head on the other arm of the couch, his back completely on Arthur's lap, who was currently pretending he wasn't there.

Arthur went to turn the page of his book, and Francis quickly closed it, unintentionally catching his Englishman's fingers between the pages. Arthur, however, didn't move his hand from where it was stuck, and looked up at Francis with a slightly exhausted expression, "Am I not giving you enough attention?" He asked sarcastically.

Francis chuckled, " _Non,_ I need more attention."

Arthur reached his left hand out, which wasn't in the book, and pat the top of Francis' head, "There, there, good Francis."

Francis narrowed his eyes, "I'm not a dog."

"You're acting like one." Arthur replied.

"I am not!" Francis protested.

"You're lying on me, demanding attention." Arthur countered.

Francis stared Arthur in the eye, before he looked away, and Arthur immediately patted the top of his head again. "Stop!" Francis exclaimed in a playful manner, smacking the Englishman's hand away.

"Francis, go check the mail." Arthur ordered, leaning forward and messing up his hair.

Francis sat up, "Fine, fine." He stood and began to walk away, "you didn't need to attack my hair, what did my hair ever do to you?"

"It got too long," Arthur said indifferently, opening his book and beginning to read again.

"Stop lying, you love my beautiful blonde locks!" Francis exclaimed, exaggerating his accent to prove a point.

Arthur only replied with looking him in the eye, and turning the page in his book.

"Fine, I'll get the mail," He groaned, "stop silently nagging me with your eyes." He walked through the front door, the warm August air greeting him. He walked down the stairs, and down the small, empty driveway, and to the mailbox at the end of the street. As he got closer, he saw a blonde woman in a pink skirt and white top. As Francis neared, he whistled at her, giving her appreciation for her looks.

She glanced over her shoulder and greeted, "Oh, hey Francis."

At that moment, Francis realized that it was in fact, not a woman, but Feliks, "Feliks!" He exclaimed, surprise engulfing him.

Feliks turned around, "You know, I got a similar reaction from Toris," He paused, "should I have told him? It totally spaced my mind."

Francis blinked, "Maybe."

Feliks shrugged, "Well, it didn't hurt anyone, so whatever."

Francis stood next to the Pole, and opened his mailbox. "I guess so, I'm just surprised that you're perfectly fine walking around outside."

"You know, after what I've gone through in my life, I'm not really afraid to." Feliks replied confidently.

"That's a good attitude to have," Francis replied, pulling a single letter out of the mailbox, and looking at the address.

"Anyway, Francis, have a good day," Feliks said, beginning to walk off, "maybe we'll get together for dinner sometime next week or something."

Francis continue to inspect the smudged address on who the letter was from, "You have a good day, too," He paused, "and hopefully we will. Maybe Wednesday?"

"I'll run it by Toris." Feliks replied.

Francis closed the mailbox and walked back home. He entered his small house, and tossed the letter at Arthur, and it landed in his lap, "It's from Joao," He explained walking back over to the couch, and plopping down beside his Englishman, who closed his book and opened the letter.

"Thank you, Francis." Arthur said, a tired tone in his voice.

"What's wrong?" Francis asked.

"Nothing, Francis, just didn't sleep well."

Francis heard an honest tone in Arthur's voice. He didn't seem that distracted today, so Arthur was probably telling the truth, and he didn't wake Francis up last night with a nightmare, so there was a high chance that it was just a bad night of sleep.

Francis leaned over and kissed Arthur on the cheek, "When you write back to Joao, tell him I said hi."

"I will," Arthur leaned into Francis, who adjusted so they were comfortable together on the couch. He put his arm around Arthur's back as he leaned against his shoulder and chest, and began reading the note from Joao.

.

Matthew was good at reading people, so he could tell that Francis and Arthur were having a generally good day. However, Alfred was not. He didn't have a nightmare last night, but he was irritable almost like he did. It probably had nothing to do with their past on the streets, but the fact that Matthew wouldn't talk, and he wasn't in the mood for another argument, so he just read his book on the Polish language, and tried to stray away from any conflict with his brother.

Alfred seemed to be pouting about something. The biggest indication was that he was lying on his bed, on his left side, staring at Matthew. His brother sighed heavily, and Matthew looked up from the book, "What?" He whispered.

"I'm bored." Alfred complained.

"I'm trying to study," Matthew replied.

"It's not like you're ever going to use it." Alfred grumbled.

Matthew looked back to his book, "You're bored, so you pick a fight with me, that's a good plan."

"How so?" Alfred countered, "What are you going to do? Tell Dad?"

Matthew ground his teeth together, and attempted to ignore his brother.

"Typical, whenever you get pissed off, you won't talk to me either," Alfred complained.

"I'm not dealing with this right now," Matthew stated, standing up and beginning to walk out of his room, hearing Arthur and Francis fake arguing.

Alfred sat up. "And where are you going?"

"Somewhere other than here!" Matthew exclaimed, a bit louder than he wanted it to. He swung the door open, and began to make his way down the hall, when he stopped to observe what Francis and Arthur were talking about.

"You see," Francis began in an exhausted tone, "you're just like a woman, you're always right."

"So you admit that?" Arthur replied, "Can I get that in writing?"

"Of course I'll put that in writing!" Francis exclaimed, walking to the dining room and getting a piece of paper, " _You're just like a woman,_ " He said in a teasing tone, scribbling down the words as he said them, "I even signed it!"

"No, the part about me being always right," Arthur objected.

"What? I never said that!" Francis denied.

"Matthew," Arthur began, "you're my witness, he said that right?"

Matthew looked from Francis, to Arthur, then turned around and went back into his room, not wanting to get in the middle of whatever strange "argument" the two were having.

"You see, Arthur, you're the reason why he doesn't talk to us," Francis began teasingly, "you're a bastard!"

" _I'm_ the bastard?" Arthur exclaimed.

Matthew closed the door to his room, and plopped down on his bed again, opening his book, and beginning to read again.

"Why'd you come back?" Alfred asked bitterly.

Matthew glanced up to him, "I didn't want to get in the middle of it."

"Why didn't you read outside then?"

"It's hot," Matthew stated simply.

Alfred only nodded in reply.

Matthew drew his attention back to his book, but didn't read it. He knew that Francis was joking when he said that Arthur was the reason that he wasn't talking, but it kind of hurt. Was Francis actually trying to blame someone? He hoped not, it wasn't because of any specific person, Matthew just believed that there was no reason to talk. Although he speaks to Alfred, he only has short, necessary conversations with him, it's not like they chat.

He sighed, trying to clear his mind of the troubles, but he couldn't. Matthew tired to focus on the book, but the words blurred. He moved the book further from his face, in the uncomfortable position that he was in earlier, and was barely able to make out the words enough to understand them.

* * *

 **Translations**

 _ **Non- (French) No**_

 **It's about time I updated, right?**

 **Seriously, my anxiety level has gone down because of sending this out and finally ending this terrible hiatus that's been on the story.**

 **I hope you found this chapter funny, and a brief relief to the overall angst of the story.**

 **~Feliks Out! (^J^)**


	15. New Problems

Chapter 10

New Problems

 _Late September_

The clock was one of the greatest inventions of mankind. All it did was hang on the wall, and measure the day in a way so people would be able tell time accurately. People use them so they can get to work on time, catch a train, or even see how fast the day was speeding by. But in Toris' case, the clock sat on the wall, ticking away the seconds and minutes, reminding him how much the day has drug on. How slow and boring it was.

If Toris was completely honest, his boredom took him by surprise. Feliks was at work, he left early because he got a little behind on some of his projects due to procrastination and lack of motivation. Toris could relate, he's done it before. He's taken days to clean someone's house when it usually takes a day at the most. But, Feliks wasn't in the house, and Toris wasn't at work. He had no work today. The weather was getting colder, so people were staying in their homes and cleaning it themselves because they have nothing better to do. Toris would plagiarize their idea, and clean the house, except he already did it two days ago, and yesterday he cleaned anything he missed.

He was lying on the couch, on his left side, his eyes closed, and listening to the clock tick away the seconds. The reason he was so bored was because Feliks was at work, and would be until about sundown. Which was usually fine. Why was he so bored? He was always perfectly fine when he lived alone, and even after Feliks moved in, but now, he had nothing to do. It's not like Toris needed entertainment, or anything like that, but he just liked being around Feliks. His and laid-back attitude, his stress-free demeanor, his laugh, his smile…

Toris snapped his eyes open, confused on where his thoughts were taking him. They didn't make sense, why was he thinking about Feliks like that? Sure he was a nice guy, but…

Toris sat up, shaking his head, not wanting to have this conversation with himself, he already had enough on his plate. Or did he not have enough? Was that why he was so bored? He can be such a workaholic sometimes, and he hasn't worked much this week, maybe that was why he was so bored.

"Yes," Toris agreed doubtfully, "that's all, I haven't been able to work." He paused and glanced around the house, "And I've been cooped up!" He exclaimed quietly, "All I need to do is get out of the house, and get some fresh air."

So that's what he did. He went to his room, and pulled his jacket on. Sure, it was only September, but it was already getting cold out— cold enough for his heavier jacket. When Toris pulled the coat over his back, he felt himself jump a little, a sensation of pain radiating from his back. He breathed through it, his eyes closed, and slowly continued slipping into the jacket, being careful not to annoy his back injuries more than they already were at the moment.

With a sigh, Toris buttoned up the coat, staring in the mirror for a moment, "What the hell, Toris?" He asked himself. That question was referring to a few things; his sudden boredom, the strange thoughts about Feliks, his inability to get over something that happened more than five years ago, why his back _still_ hurts. Unable to come up with an answer, he walked away, mumbling, "You're such a mess."

Now out on the streets, a cold wind pushed against Toris as he walked. It pushed his hair back, and slithered down the back of his neck, forcing a chill through his body. All his life, he never really minded the cold weather. He used to find the snow that came with winter peaceful, and almost innocent in a way. Not so much anymore. After years of fighting on the Eastern front, he grew a loathing for the cold, especially snow. And even now, more than five years later, he still despises it.

The town wasn't very crowded this time of day, most people were at work. Toris knew he had a few errands to run, but left his wallet in the house. He groaned, closing his eyes tightly, and pinching the bridge of his nose. But at least he was out now, and walking around and although the breeze was cold, it felt nice on his skin.

It was almost hypnotic. The quiet murmur of the few people out and about chattering, the first dead leaves crunching below his feet, the cool breeze. Definitely better than being cooped up in the house, and dreading over the war that ended over five years ago. Or all the death he's faced. All the tragedy, and losses…

Toris shook his head, trying to clear away the thoughts, but it was harder this time. The war took everything from him, not just his best friends. It killed his family, his friends, destroyed his home, ran him out of Lithuania, and psychologically tore him apart.

Toris gently smacked his palm against his forehead a few times, "Enough, stop thinking." He whispered to himself, "You're clearing your head, not thinking about stuff like that." Although deep down, Toris knew he was repressing it and just making it worse, he pretended he wasn't.

"Toris, you alright?"

The voice took him by surprise, making Toris jump a little. At first thought, he'd say it was Feliks, but the accent wasn't right. After a moment of thought, and actually turning to look at the source of the sound, he concluded it was Ivan, "Oh, hey Ivan." Toris greeted, ignoring the question.

"Hello," Ivan replied, with a tired smile, "are you alright?" He asked again, "You look troubled."

"It's nothing," Toris waved him off, "it's just stress."

Ivan nodded awkwardly, putting his hands in his pockets.

"So I haven't seen you around lately," Toris prompted, changing the subject.

"I was transferred back into Russia for some time," Ivan said flatly, "I was sent back here. I'm not sure why, I'm just wandering around on guard duty. There's really no need to be here."

"I'm sorry," Toris apologized sympathetically, "it must be stressful."

Ivan shrugged, "Not so much anymore, I'm used to overwhelming stress, it doesn't bother me much."

Toris chuckled lightly, "I guess you have a point, but still," he paused, "do you have any way to vent?"

"I can just yell at the privates." Ivan said in a lighthearted tone.

"Oh," Toris started, "so that's why you were so strict." He joked back, "But I thought privates stressed you out?"

Ivan groaned, "They do… I swear to God, I can't remember a time when I wasn't stressed."

"I know how you feel," Toris complained, but still giving a reassuring smile, "I might not be in the army, but it still feels like it sometimes."

The look on Ivan's face grew sympathetic, "That shell-shocked, huh?"

Toris' smile faded a little. Even though he and Ivan weren't the closest, he always felt like he could be honest with the man. It's not like he felt like he couldn't be honest with Feliks, he just didn't want to bother him. Feliks had it much worse than he ever did. Toris sighed, "I'm getting by. Not getting better, but I'm learning how to deal."

"I understand," Ivan said reassuringly, "how's your back?"

The question was out of the blue, and just the reminder of it gave Toris a slight sensation of pain in his back. He cocked his head to the side, rubbing the back of his neck, "It's… it's fine. All healed and everything."

Ivan pat his shoulder, "That's good… It was nice talking to you, but I need to get going… Hang in there."

"It was nice talking to you too," Toris replied, "and good luck with the privates."

Ivan groaned a little before turning and walking down the street. Toris couldn't help but let out a short laugh before walking in the direction of Feliks' shop, so he could relieve himself of his boredom.

.

Feliks' day was just full of busywork. Although he was behind on many of his projects, he basically had to do the same thing for each one. It was all pretty easy to do, he just wished he had a little entertainment. Like a radio, or someone to walk in and talk to him. The past few days, really no one has come in, which had left Feliks quite bored, but he can manage.

He was whistling to a tune of a song that was long forgotten by the public. It was a lullaby his mother would sing to him whenever he couldn't sleep, or had nightmares. It was a slow song, and would always calm him, even now. Feliks didn't need calming, he was perfectly fine, at least today he was. He was just whistling it to break the silence of his small shop.

The door opened, ringing the small bell that sat above it. Feliks picked his head of from his work to see Toris walking in.

"Hey, Feliks." Toris greeted with a smile.

Feliks snapped and pointed at the brunette, "Hey, hey. What's up?"

Toris shrugged, "Nothing, I just wanted to stop by."

"You're going to see me in, like, three hours." Feliks replied with a smile, looking back down to the sewing machine.

"I know," Toris began, pulling up a chair, and sitting across from Feliks, "I had nothing to do, so I thought I'd give you a little company… You were saying that it's been kind of boring in here, since not many customers are coming in."

"That's very kind, Toris," Feliks said before looking back up to him, "it's so weird though, I'm usually a lot more busy in autumn and winter."

"Maybe it's not cold enough yet." Toris assured, repositioning himself in the chair.

"You're in your heavy coat."

"I'm not a good example," Toris started, unbuttoning his coat, probably because it was warmer inside, "I really hate the cold, I'm a little sensitive to it."

Feliks chuckled, "I wouldn't have guessed. I mean, coming from Lithuania…" He trailed off, his point seeming obvious.

"Well, for the longest time, I didn't mind it." Toris countered, "Just, being in the war and all… It changed my views on it."

"Oh," Feliks said, understanding what he meant, "I get it…" He trailed off for a moment, "any specific reason? Or is it just because of being out in the snow?"

Toris waved him off, "No specific reason, it just made it that much harder and miserable to stay out there."

After inspecting the pair of pants he was sewing, he stood to go put it away. He walked by Toris, and patted his back, saying, "I'm sorry."

Toris flinched at the contact, sucking in a loud breath of air.

"Woah," Feliks said, putting his hand on Toris' shoulder, "are you alright?"

"Yes," Toris said quickly, "yes I'm fine, I just… I just slept on my back wrong."

"That was quite the flinch…" Feliks pointed out, trailing off for a long moment, bending a little closer to the Lithuanian, "are you sure?"

Toris smiled, although it seemed forced, "Yes, yes, I'm fine! I have back troubles, always have, and if I sleep on my back wrong for even one night, it ends up hurting like hell for days." He rambled.

"Maybe you should see a doctor." Feliks suggested, going back to his desk, deciding to put the pants away a little later.

Toris waved him off, "No, I'm fine, trust me, Feliks."

Feliks wasn't the best at reading the atmosphere, nor was he great at telling a lie from truth, but Toris didn't seem completely honest. He sounded reassuring, but it also sounded a bit forced. Feliks gave a concerned look, "You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"

"I know!" Toris exclaimed, a little loudly, "There's nothing to talk about, I'm fine." He sounded almost like he was laughing.

"Toris," Feliks said slowly, "You keep making little mentions of the war, or about your friends and stuff, but you never actually talk about it."

Toris stared at him for a long moment, "Feliks, I'm fine," he assured again.

"Toris," Feliks sighed, "what's wrong with your back?"

Toris adjusted his stare to the desk between them. He started to mindlessly pick at a small bump in the wood, "During the war…" he began cautiously, "I was in a battle. In a series of explosions, I was only burned a little, it was mainly the concussions, but they knocked me out cold… I woke up in some German base, and they, uh…" He paused for a long moment, his face twisting a little, and he shifted in the chair, "tortured me… for information I didn't have…"

Feliks had no idea what to say. He was staring at Toris, surprised with the story. However, he was a bit confused, "Why does your back still hurt then?"

Toris stiffened, "It doesn't actually hurt, just… sometimes it feels like it does."

"Did this cause your back problems?" Feliks asked.

Toris smiled, "Yes and no. I've always had a sensitive back, but not nearly this bad… My 'back problems' are just from the imaginary pain of the scars."

"You have scars?" Feliks asked carefully.

Toris nodded.

"Can I see them?" Feliks joked.

"What?" Toris sounded surprised, "No, you can't see them."

Feliks smiled largely, "Toris, I'm kidding."

Toris gave a small smirk, but didn't reply.

"Anyway, Toris, I'm sorry that happened to you," Feliks paused, "and I'm also sorry I brought it up. I kind of pried a lot to get you to answer me."

Toris waved him off, "It's alright Feliks, you were just concerned. I'm glad that you care as much as you do." He stopped for a moment, still picking at the small bump in the table, "I feel a little better than I did earlier. I got some stress of my chest. Thank you."

"No problem, Toris. That's what friends are for, right?" Feliks replied.

"Yes, Feliks." Toris agreed, going silent for a while.

Honestly, Feliks had more questions, but Toris seemed to be pondering his past enough on his own, and he didn't want to worsen whatever thought process was going through his head. Feliks stood, taking the same pair of pants from earlier, and brought them to the side room, where they belong, and laid them down neatly in a stack. He worked hard for his last three hours of the day, Toris heading home after about two so he could start dinner. Maybe Feliks would bring up his questions another time. For now, he just needed to focus on his work. And so did Toris.

.

Matthew was sitting on his bed, reading a book in Polish with ease. It wasn't the hardest book, and the plotline wasn't that great, but at least it was practice. It was nice to sit in his room alone for a little bit, and free himself from the prosecution of his brother. The curtain was open, letting the sun's light pour into the room, and his blanket was lying neatly over him at hip-level. It was warm and cozy after coming home from such a cold work day.

The door to his room opened, making Matthew look up. Alfred began to enter, stopping just a few steps in, and staring at him for a moment, before sighing, and continuing to his bed. Matthew raised an eyebrow, and after the door closed, he asked, "What?"

But Alfred didn't answer. He just sat on his bed, opened a harder book on the English language, and began reading. Matthew chewed on the inside of his cheek. Maybe Alfred didn't hear him, so he asked again, "What?"

Alfred didn't even glance at him, he only turned the page in the book and continued reading. Right at that moment, Matthew realized what he was doing. Alfred was refusing to talk to him, but why?

"What?" Matthew demanded more than asked.

Alfred stared him hard in the eyes, a hint of anger in them. Instead of speaking, he wrote something down on a slip of paper, and handed it over. It read:

" _Now you know how Dad and Papa feel."_

Matthew could feel his eye twitch with annoyance. So Alfred was doing this to get under his skin? To piss him off and get him to start talking to Arthur and Francis. It's not going to work, Alfred's not going to force him to do anything, Alfred doesn't control him, nor has he ever. Matthew dropped the paper on the floor, and began reading. If Alfred wanted to play this game, then he would play it too.

.

The night was quiet and cold, but at least Francis was below his blankets, with Arthur snuggling up against him. Although Francis always loved spring over any season, he didn't mind autumn or winter. It was Arthur's favorite times of year, and at night when they were sleeping, his Englishman would get cold and cuddle up to him. Not that Arthur would ever admit to it.

So, despite his inability to sleep, he was at least warm, and holding his _cher_ in his arms. He wasn't exactly sure why, but he hasn't been sleeping well lately. Well, more accurately, not at all. He was tired from a long day at work, especially after not being able to sleep, his eyelids were heavy, and he _wanted_ to sleep, but he just _couldn't._ It's not that he wasn't comfortable, he was very comfortable, and warm, and cozy, but… he just didn't know why.

Deep down, he knew why, he just wanted to repress it. The war, again, was bothering him, but everyone else had it so much worse than him. Arthur would still get pain in his abdomen from his shot wound, Toris was on the Eastern Front, and Alfred and Matthew were orphaned at a very young age. Hell, Matthew won't even speak, it was so bad.

Francis rubbed his eyes with his right hand.

Then again, he did have it bad. His family was torn apart before the war, he had to leave his country behind, he survived scarring battle after scarring battle, and he could even vividly remember Normandy like it was yesterday. Maybe he should talk about it.

Francis looked over to Arthur, who was caught in a deep, peaceful slumber. Arthur was dealing with his own emotional and psychological pain, he didn't need to take on Francis' too. With a sigh, he decided to repress it. Maybe he would bring it up when Arthur was a bit better. Or maybe he should talk to Feliks about it, he's the only one who isn't psychologically damaged as everyone else is.

Francis looked back to Arthur. He wanted to get up and sit in the living room and read. Maybe it would help. However, Arthur is a very light sleeper, and wakes up to just the sound of Francis leaving the room, let alone Francis moving him to where he can actually leave. He had to act out every move carefully if he was going to escape his room unnoticed.

He started to slide his arm out from under Arthur, who who shifted slightly. Francis folded the blankets off of himself, and slid out of the bed, beginning to sneak away.

Arthur reached a hand out, failing to catch Francis', "Where are you going?" He slurred.

Francis smiled down at Arthur, "I'm just a little hungry, you know I can't sleep when I'm hungry. I'm going to go get a snack." He lied.

Arthur stretched across Francis' side of the bed, grabbing ahold of his hand, "Okay… don't be too long."

"I won't," Francis promised, patting Arthur's hand, "go back to sleep, I'll be back in a little bit."

Arthur let out a soft moan in reply.

Francis gave Arthur a quick kiss on the cheek, and walked off, closing the bedroom door behind him. He walked to the living room, turned on a lamp, grabbing a book, and sitting down to read. It was a little hard to concentrate, being that his eyes were so tired, and if he didn't know any better he'd try to go back to bed. With a yawn, he continued to read in the silence of his house. It was peaceful, and strangely relieving. But only about twenty minutes passed before it was broken.

"Francis." Arthur muttered.

Francis looked up, seeing Arthur standing at the end of the hallway, with his arms crossed, his head down, and his eyes closed. He couldn't help but smile a little, " _Oui,_ _cher?_ "

"You said you were coming back to bed." He slurred.

"What?" Francis chuckled.

Arthur raised his voice a little, "You said you were coming back to bed."

Francis closed the book and walked over, "I am, it just took a little longer. I'm not that tired, so I started reading." He started to lead Arthur back to the bedroom, "But you need to get some sleep, we have work in the morning."

"No, you're coming to bed with me," Arthur ordered.

"I'm not tired yet, I'll be back soon." Francis replied, watching Arthur crawl back into bed.

"No," Arthur argued, pointing at Francis' side of the bed, "you come to bed now."

"Arthur—"

Arthur didn't let him finish, just pointed at the bed with more force, "You come to bed now," He repeated, "and if you don't fall asleep, then at least you're in the dark, in a warm bed, with me cuddling with you."

Francis laughed a little. He stared at Arthur for a long moment before giving up, "How could I refuse?" He paused, "let me go turn the living room light off."

"Don't be too long," Arthur ordered, "don't make me come out there again."

"I won't, I won't." He replied over his shoulder with a yawn. After turning the lamp back off, Francis stood in the darkness of the living room, wondering if he would actually sleep tonight. Perhaps going back to bed would help.

Once in bed, Arthur curled up next to him again, using his shoulder as a pillow. However instead of Arthur falling asleep immediately, as expected, he ran his fingers through Francis' hair. It was something the two of them would always do to each other to make the other relax, or calm down. Even though it didn't lull him into sleep like it usually did, it relaxed him, and got his mind off of the many things that were bothering him. But at least it was autumn, and he was able to hold his _cher_ in his arms tonight.

* * *

 **Translations:**

 _ **Oui- (French) Yes**_

 _ **Cher- (French) dear**_

 **As you may have noticed, I'm bringing up some new, painful topics. Some insight on what's going on with Francis and Toris, all that jazz. And what will unfold with Alfred and Matthew? See in the next chapter (dun dun duuuuuun!)**

 **~Feliks Out! (^J^)**


	16. Another Broken Family

Chapter Eleven

Another Broken Family

This little game had been going on for about three days, and if he was honest with himself, Matthew expected Alfred to break by now. It was surprising how well Alfred seemed to be without talking to him. In fact, he seemed better than ever. Matthew just wished he could say the same.

It hurt. Being cut off from the only person he ever spoke to was extremely painful, especially since this person was his twin brother and best friend. Alfred hadn't had a nightmare in three days, and Matthew had barely slept.

"Maybe I should just talk to him." Matthew whispered to himself as he sat alone in his bedroom. Alfred was out front talking with Toris. "No," He quickly dismissed, "no, the only way Alfred will ever leave you alone about this mutism thing is if you wait it out." He closed his eyes and tugged on his hair. Why was dealing with this so hard? He's used to never talking.

Maybe Matthew was bringing the family down. Maybe he's putting too much pressure on Alfred. Maybe he's worrying Arthur, or depressing Francis, maybe that's why everyone else seems to be so much better off all of a sudden. Alfred's nightmares have been absent since the two of them had stopped talking, Francis finally got some sleep, and Arthur has been less paranoid lately. Everything has been so much better for everyone else, after only three days of complete silence.

 _What if this becomes permanent? What if I just never speak again?_ Matthew almost laughed at his thoughts. Of course this wouldn't be permanent, Alfred would give in. There's only so long that man can go without blabbing his fat mouth. He would give in… Eventually… Maybe…

Hopefully…

.

Francis knew something was wrong, he wasn't sure why, but he just has that feeling. At this point in his life, he knew to trust this feeling. War and tragedy taught him to trust this feeling, which is why he was pestering Arthur so much. He was trying to figure out what was wrong. Arthur hadn't been very paranoid lately, but that doesn't mean that he's alright. Maybe he's just repressing it.

"Sweetie," Francis said, walking over to his Englishman, who sat alone on the couch reading his book, "can I talk to you?"

Arthur turned the page in his book, "What about?"

Francis sat next to him, stretching and putting his right arm across Arthur's shoulders, "If I'm going to be honest, I'm a little worried."

"About?"

"You," Francis said, hearing the saddened tone in his voice, "you seem a little off."

Arthur cocked an eyebrow, looking up from his book to meet Francis' stare, "How so?"

"Well," Francis began, shifting slightly, "you seem less paranoid."

"I don't understand how that's a bad thing." Arthur stated, shaking his head.

Francis lowered his arm from Arthur's shoulder, and placed his hands in his lap, "Usually this means you're repressing something... you want to talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about, Francis, I'm fine." Arthur replied.

" _Cher_ —"

" _Cher,_ nothing, Francis, I'm not repressing anything, I'm fine." Arthur interrupted, sounding irritated, "For the first time in a while I'm sleeping well, and not as paranoid as usual, how the hell is this a bad thing?"

"I'm not saying it's a bad thing," Francis reassured, "Arthur, I told you, this usually means you're repressing something."

Arthur closed his eyes for a brief moment, pinching the bridge of his nose, "There's nothing to worry about, Francis," he lowered his hand and opened his eyes, "I'm fine. And I'm not just saying that to be stubborn, I'm actually fine this time."

"Hey," Francis cheered, "at least you finally admitted that you do it out of stubbornness."

Arthur rolled his eyes with a sigh, leaning against Francis' shoulder, "Why do you ask anyway?"

"I told you, you've been a little off lately." Francis replied.

The Englishman shook his head, "It's not that, I know it's not. If you noticed that I was doing better this week, you would've left it alone… there's something else."

Francis hesitated before answering, deciding whether or not to tell the truth, "I just have this feeling… it's probably nothing."

Arthur sat up, looking to the ground, "Like something's wrong?"

" _Oui_ ," Francis said slowly, growing concerned again, "are you feeling it?"

Arthur was quiet for a long moment, glancing at him a few times. He sighed, "Have you noticed the boys? They've been strangely quiet to one another."

"We're thinking of the same boys, right?" Francis asked, giving a small chuckle, "Matthew doesn't talk."

"Not to us, but he talks to Alfred all the time…" Arthur turned his head back to Francis, "You know how we'll hear quiet murmurs every now and then coming from their room? I haven't been hearing that."

Francis started thinking about what Arthur was saying, and actually began to agree with it. He hadn't been hearing the indistinguishable whispers coming through the walls of their room, and Alfred hadn't been prompting Matthew to speak. Just, all of a sudden, they seemed silent. Francis narrowed his eyebrows, "Do you think they got in a fight?"

His husband shrugged, "Of how irritable Alfred's been towards Matthew, it's not farfetched."

"Should we talk to him?"

"Alfred?" Arthur asked, "Because if you're referring to Matthew, I'm getting the feeling that won't go anywhere."

Francis felt his heart drop a little, "Yes, Alfred."

Arthur turned his head away, resting his chin on his hand, "That won't go anywhere. Have you seen how he's been? If we ask him, he'll resent us."

"Good point," Francis agreed, thinking. They can't directly ask Alfred, but even if they asked Matthew, they wouldn't be given an answer, verbal or through body language. Matthew hasn't even been hinting towards his thoughts, not for the last three days. Francis snapped his fingers, "I know, we prompt Alfred to talk to Matthew. If he does, there's nothing wrong. If he doesn't, then we start talking to Alfred about this."

Arthur hummed in thought, bouncing his leg, "It's worth a try."

"Alright, it's a plan," Francis almost exclaimed, slapping his hands down on his knees and standing up, "I'm going to make dinner."

.

Alfred opened the front screen door of his house, which announced him with a loud _creak_ , and strode into the living room, to find Dad who was, as usual, sitting on the couch and reading. He started heading for the spot next to him on the couch, not wanting to go to his room, but Dad stopped him, "Go get washed up and changed into clean clothes, dinner's almost ready."

Alfred hesitated before nodding, "Okay," he said, wandering off to the bathroom, turning on the sink, and washing his hands and arms. Once dried off, he pulled out a towel, and washed his face and neck, trying to scrub away any dirt and mud that was still on him. Once finished, he hung up the towel to dry, and left the room.

Alfred stood in the hallway, staring at the closed door of his bedroom. He didn't want to go in there, it would be much too awkward. Alfred had half a mind to walk away, and just stay in his dirty clothes, but neither Dad nor Papa would let him. You _always_ wash up for dinner. He closed his eyes with a sigh, and entered the room.

After stepping in, he made immediate eye contact with Matthew, who gave him an emotionless stare. Alfred looked away and walked to his side of the room, opening the dresser, and pulling out a clean shirt and pair of pants. He changed, and quickly left, the built up anger between the two of them feeling heavy, but relief settled when he closed the door behind him, and strode calmly down the hall, as if everything was perfectly fine. Because it was. Everything was fine. Just _fine._

"Alfred, go tell Matthew that dinner's ready," Dad called, heading to the dining room.

Alfred stopped not halfway down the hall, and stared at his father, and quickened his pace, continuing down the hall like he didn't hear it, "You can," He squeaked, trying not to anger the Englishman too much.

"Excuse me?" Dad asked, his tone immediately sounding angry, "No, you go tell your brother that dinner's ready."

Alfred gulped, "Can't you, like, yell it to him from here?"

Dad's stare morphed into a hard glare as he stopped where he was walking, and turned to him, arms crossed, "Go get your brother. _Now._ "

Alfred _almost_ followed the order. He probably would've if his fat mouth wasn't too fast for his brain, "No." He paused before continuing, "I mean, its not like we'll notice, he doesn't talk anyway," he added in a nervously joking tone. After noticing that he failed to save his own ass, he quickly fled, heading for the dining room, away from his father. Dad, however, caught his bicep in a firm grip, immediately stopping Alfred's movement. He swallowed hard, meeting his father's gaze.

"I don't know what fight you and your brother are in, young man, but you better start behaving yourself, and you better stop talking about your brother like that," The veteran growled harshly, "do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir!" Alfred muttered, feeling embarrassed.

"Thank you." Dad snapped, pushing him back down the hall, making Alfred stumble a few steps, before regaining balance, and slinking away.

He stared at the door handle, already dreading the confrontation with Matthew. He already had to be in the same room as him once, did he really have to again? He glanced over his shoulder, seeing his father watching him from the beginning of the hallway, still holding the same furious glare. Alfred swallowed hard, reentered the room, and closed the door behind him.

Once inside, he caught a glare from Matthew, which he held with confidence, straightening his posture, and staring down his nose at him. After a moment, Alfred said, "Dinner's ready."

"So you're talking to me now?" Matthew said in a bored tone, looking back down to the book he was reading.

"Only because Dad made me, this isn't over between us, got it?" Alfred snapped harshly.

Matthew looked back up, "I know, I heard what you said about me."

Alfred could feel sweat collect on his palms, "Really?"

"Yeah," Matthew began in a cynical tone, "believe it or not, you're not that great at whispering, but it's not like you were trying to right? I'm guessing that was meant to be heard?"

"Duh," Alfred said with an eyeroll, even though he was quite embarrassed. He didn't want his brother to hear that.

"Well you can tell your 'parents' that I'm heading out."

"Oh thank God," Alfred replied sarcastically, turning and hurriedly leaving. He was hoping he could just get dinner over with as fast as possible, so he wouldn't have to be around Matthew anymore.

.

Once everyone was seated at the dinner table, and everyone was given their portions, no one really spoke. Arthur could tell there was tension between the boys, even before his discussion with Alfred, but he hadn't really noticed how long it's been going on. Alfred had been quite short with Matthew lately.

"So, how's Toris?" Francis asked, finally breaking the silence between the four.

Alfred shrugged, "He's fine. He was telling me that he ran into Ivan the other day."

"Ivan," Arthur started, "he's that army friend of his, right?"

"Well, they weren't the best of friends, it was more a Captain-Private relationship, but yeah, they're kind of becoming friends now." Alfred explained.

"Right, right." Arthur agreed, nodding.

Francis drummed his thumbs on the table, obviously uncomfortable with the silence. "Did you see Feliks?"

Alfred shook his head, "I waved at him, but he was already inside when I was chatting with Toris." He then looked at Matthew, "So Mattie, how are the Polish lessons going? You were reading your Polish book when I went in there."

Arthur saw anger boil in Matthew's eyes, before he closed them.

"Right, right, we're not important enough to talk to." Alfred said sarcastically, nodding.

Matthew glared at him in a silent warning.

"I mean, you're not even talking to me now—"

"Enough!" Arthur snapped, slamming his fist on the table.

Alfred fell silent, giving Arthur a challenging stare. After just a few moments, Alfred continued, "Since you're not talking to me, I guess that I'm not important to you either— Ow!" He exclaimed, reaching down and rubbing his leg.

Arthur closed his eyes tightly, grumbling, "What?"

"He kicked me!" Alfred winced in surprise.

Arthur glared at Matthew, "Don't kick your brother," He ordered through grit teeth.

"Considering your kick, you're trying to tell me that I'm wrong," Alfred started, "if I am, then why don't you educate me, hm? Why don't you talk to us?"

Arthur watched Matthew, trying to see how he would retaliate. He saw the boy's jaw tighten, and his eyes lock to the center of the table.

"But I guess I'm right, then," Alfred huffed, "you don't care— Ow!" Alfred yelped, giving away that Matthew had kicked him again.

"Matthew!" Arthur warned forcefully, "do _not_ kick your brother."

Matthew, who was now glaring at Alfred, fixed his stare back to the table, and began eating again, seemingly trying to ignore Alfred's comments.

Arthur looked to Alfred, "What did I say about behaving yourself?"

"I am behaving," Alfred argued, "all I'm doing is talking to my brother…" he paused, "but I'm not even sure if I should call him that anymore, he probably doesn't care about me— Ow!" Alfred winced as he visually jumped in his chair, giving away that Matthew had kicked him with more force this time.

Arthur opened his mouth to yell at the two, but he was cut off. "Goddammit!" Francis yelled, slamming his hands on the table, and standing up, making all the dishes shake and clatter. The room fell silent. "Can I have one dinner?" Francis continued, his tone growing louder, "That's all I ask for, one Goddamn dinner! Is that too much to ask for?"

Arthur glanced to his husband, but didn't reply. He knew that he needed to rant.

"Apparently it is!" Francis exclaimed after a few moments of silence, "There has to be some remark about how Matthew doesn't talk, or Matthew kicks or hits Alfred. I'm sick of it! It's every night with you two, and it needs to stop! We come home from a long day of work, we're hungry, we're tired, and we want to eat food, and go to bed. _Every night_ I race home and make dinner as fast as possible so we can eat as soon as possible, and I would like to have a decent, loving conversation with my family!" Francis sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "But apparently I can't have one hour of peace. One fucking hour of some nice, family time before I go to bed, and fail to sleep… Thank you _so much_!" He ended sarcastically, before turning and storming off.

Arthur stood, trying to catch him before he left, "Francis—"

"I want to be left alone!" He barked over his shoulder, stomping down the hall, and slamming the bedroom door closed.

Arthur stood there for a long moment, staring at the entrance to the hall. He didn't really know what he was going to say to Francis, but he was bothered. Sure, everything Francis had said was completely true, but… had he really not been sleeping? He closed his eyes, and shook his head, rubbing his temples. He would have to talk to Francis about that later.

With a sigh, Arthur turned his head slowly, and glared down at the boys, "I don't know who the hell you two think you are, but this needs to stop _right now!_ " He growled, "You have no right to treat him like this! He busts his arse for the three of us! You have no idea what that man's been through, and he shouldn't have to deal with _this_ on top of everything else!" He took a moment to breathe, trying to calm down, "Whatever fight you're in is ending _now_ , do you understand? If this happens again, I don't know what I'm going to do to you two." He paused, glancing from one of the boys to the other, "Go to your room."

They both stood, and started to scurry away, but Arthur stopped them, "Wait… Alfred, go to your room. Matthew, go to the living room, I'm splitting you two up," He looked to Alfred, "here in a little bit, I'm going to send Matthew in so you can resolve this, _okay?_ "

"Yes sir." Alfred said as Matthew nodded.

"Go." Arthur snapped, and the two slinked away to their respective places. Arthur ran his hands down his face with a groan, and fell back down in the chair he was sitting in earlier. "I need a drink." He whispered to himself.

He sat there for about thirty minutes, staring at the table, giving Francis, and himself, time to cool down. Arthur had been forcing himself to stay put, instead of talking to Francis immediately after the whole ordeal, but he also didn't want to talk to Francis about it. Sure, he wanted to resolve this as fast as possible, and figure out what's going on in his Frenchman's head, but Francis had seemed to be doing really well the past week or so.

But this was typical for Francis. He was so free with his emotions, it seemed like it was easy for him to hide inner turmoil behind a smile or laugh. He could always fool Arthur for a few days, but how long had it been going on this time?

With a sigh, Arthur stood, heading for their bedroom. He stopped at the entrance to the hall, and glanced back at Matthew, "To your room. You and Alfred settle this fight, now." Matthew followed the order, getting up quickly, and speeding down the hall.

Arthur hesitated when he came to the closed doorway, but eventually knocked lightly. He didn't give Francis the chance to reply, he just opened the door, reassuringly saying, "Hey," He closed the door behind him.

"Why knock if you're going to come in anyway?" Francis muttered, his hands over his face as he laid on the bed on his back.

"Courtesy?" Arthur replied like it was a question. He shook his head, and walked further into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed beside his Frenchman, "We need to talk about what happened."

"Do we have to?" Francis asked like a whining child, dropping his hands onto the bed, "because I'd rather not."

Arthur stared into Francis' distressed blue eyes, that were watery from tears, "You've been crying." He stated.

Francis closed his eyes, not giving a reply.

"Francis—" Arthur began soothingly before he was cut off.

"What exactly is there to talk about anyway?" The Frenchman snapped lightly, sitting up, "Our family is falling apart!" He exclaimed, beginning to cry again.

"Francis, my love, we're not falling apart," Arthur scooted closer, and pulled him into a firm, but gentle hug, "sure, we're a bit at each other's throats right now, but… it's been a bad few weeks for us lately, that's all."

Francis pushed him away, "It's always a bad week!" His accent thickened as he grew more upset, "Someone is always mad, there's always an argument, always a fight!" He paused and took a few breaths, "Arthur, I've gotten to the point that I no longer know what to do!"

Arthur wiped away Francis' tears, and brushed his hair behind his ear, and out of his face, "Times are hard right now, but it'll get better… We'll get through this, we just need to—"

"I know, we need to be there for each other, I know," Francis interrupted, "I wouldn't say it's working, but we've been managing… It's just…" He trailed off, putting his hands back over his face.

"Just what?" Arthur prompted, placing a hand on Francis' leg comfortingly.

"We're falling apart!" Francis repeated with a breath, dropping his hands on his lap.

"We're not falling apart," Arthur stated firmly, "We're facing some hardships, but we're not falling apart."

"Yes we are," Francis argued, "take the boys for example! Matthew has never spoken to us, and now apparently he's blocking out Alfred, but when they do speak now, it's all arguing!" He paused, "Alfred feels like Matthew doesn't care about any of us, you and Alfred have been at each other's throats, Matthew, not only isn't he talking, but has been more aloof than ever, and, on top of all of that, all of our mental states are deteriorating because of shell shock!" Francis took a couple deep breaths, "Doesn't that sound like falling apart to you? Because it sure as hell sounds like it to me."

 _Maybe he's right,_ Arthur thought before shaking his head, trying to rid of the thought, but it stuck like paper on glue. He tried to form a sentence, some way to comfort, but was rendered speechless. He closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head again, "Maybe," Arthur agreed, receiving a terrified glance from his spouse, "maybe we are crumbling a little, but that doesn't mean we can't fix ourselves."

"You know," Francis sighed, "when my brothers and I started fighting in 1935 on our views of fascism, I thought the same thing. I kept trying to fix it, or avoid it. For four fucking years I tried to fix the problem, I tried to negotiate with them... it got to the point that I stopped trying to change their views, I was just trying to keep them in France where we could stay together." He sniffled, "Over those years of trying to save my relationship with my brothers, I ended up making it all worse. In 1939, they disowned me, left France, and joined the Italian Army, where they probably died in the North African desert, fighting for what?" Francis asked with a light, sad chuckle, "They died for a fucking lie."

Arthur took a deep breath. It hurt him to hear Francis sound so hopeless and lost. He was almost never like this, it broke his heart every time he saw it. He looked to the floor, carefully planning out every word he spoke, "I'm so, so sorry about your brothers Francis, I truly am. But, we are not your brothers. This is a completely different time then it was back then. There's no Nazi's marching around Europe like they own the place, no fascism arguments, there's less tension… And besides, your older and wiser now, and, you're not alone. Your three brothers all chose fascism over you, but I'm beside you no matter what," He grabbed Francis' hand and squeezed it gently, "We can figure this out, but this is something that we need to work on together. I can't fix us alone, I've come to realize that."

"But what if we can't fix it?" His Frenchman asked desperately, "I can't lose another family, Arthur, I can't go through that pain again." He started to cry.

Arthur wrapped him in a tight, but gentle hug, "You won't, Love, I will always stay with you," He pulled back slowly, wiping away his spouse's tears, "I promise."

Francis sniffled, looking down to the floorboards, "I know… I don't have to worry about you, I've seen you kill and almost die for me… It's the boys I'm scared for."

"They're talking in their room now, they're going to settle this dispute."

"It's just going to start back up again," Francis said, almost like he knew it as a fact, "as long as Matthew isn't speaking, Alfred's going to keep bringing it up."

Arthur also looked to the floor, "I'll talk to him."

Francis sighed, reminding Arthur that he had mentioned the tensions between him and Alfred have been quite high, "Or maybe you should?" Arthur offered, "Alfred and I haven't been completely getting along. Perhaps he would respond better to you."

"I guess," Francis shrugged, sounding defeated, "you and Alfred have always been a bit closer, though."

"I've also been arguing with him," Arthur added, "it might seem aggressive to him if it came from me."

Francis took a deep breath, "You're right… when should I talk to him?" He cocked his head to the side.

Arthur took a moment to decide, they can't wait too long, or the twins' tensions would resurface, and this entire situation would repeat itself. "Maybe tomorrow? I don't want to wait too long before you talk to him."

Francis nodded, agreeing silently with him. "Now the trick is figuring out what to say."

"I'd explain to Alfred that Matthew is suffering through the same shell shock that we are," Arthur suggested, shoving his hands in his pockets, "he's just trying to deal with it through mutism."

Francis sat up a little straighter, his eyes hinting towards confidence, "You're right, all I need to do is explain to him why Matthew would be acting this way."

The two sat in a long comfortable silence, and Arthur guessed that Francis was planning out his conversation with Alfred. Arthur was trying to figure out if he should bring something up or not. Now was probably not a good time for a talk like that, Francis wasn't in the best mental state today, and Arthur didn't want to bring him further down. And besides, it didn't matter anyway. The feeling would pass, just as it has for the past ten years.

.

 _1940_

 _All throughout the 1930s, and leading to the declaration of war, Europe had become anxious and paranoid. Tensions were high wherever anyone would go, but Poland had become a stressful hellhole. Feliks knew something was going to happen to him. Of the large amounts of Jews that had been relocated within a single year of annexation, he knew he wouldn't go unnoticed forever. He wasn't extremely worried about it, though. It was just a simple relocation, right?_

 _He followed the laws. He wore his coat depicting the Star of David whenever he was in public. Surprisingly, his tailor shop hadn't been destroyed or burned down, but it was only a matter of time. He'd seen Jewish shops destroyed before. He did whatever he was supposed to, and was obviously prosecuted by the German soldiers and public alike, but all Jews were._

 _The bell above the door rang, pulling Feliks' attention to it. He stepped out of his studio room, and walked to the front desk. Greeting the customer, he silently prayed it wasn't a Nazi soldier. Relief washed over him as his friend, Iryna, stepped through the door. Feliks and Iryna first started getting along when she became a regular in his shop, as she would come in about once every month or month and a half, asking him to patch up one of her dresses or pairs of pants. Just like he did when he was younger, Iryna works on a farm, and often tears her clothes. However today, she wore a solemn expression on her face, and carried no torn clothes._

" _What can I do for you, Iryna?" Feliks nearly sang, leaning against the counter with a smile._

 _She hesitated for a long moment, "I have something important to talk to you about. Could we talk in your studio?"_

 _Feliks' smile dropped a little, growing nervous. Iryna was his friend, but the anti-semitism has gotten to his head a bit. He'd become more paranoid than he used to be. "Sure," he said slowly, walking back into his studio, Iryna following him. He tried to act casual so she wouldn't catch on to his nervousness, "What's up?"_

" _I'm very worried for you, Feliks," Iryna said quietly, "with everything going on, you're in a lot of danger."_

 _Feliks was well aware of that fact, but he was also in denial, "What are you talking about?"_

 _Iryna stared at him for a long moment, "Relocation!" She exclaimed quietly, stepping closer to him._

 _Feliks' stare dropped to the floor. He wasn't sure what to say. Overall, the idea of relocating the citizens that live in an active war zone is smart, but it never seemed to be just a relocation. It was threatening, and definitely suspicious that it was only certain kinds of people were being relocated. "What about it? It's just relocation, we live in a war zone." He reminded nervously._

 _Iryna shook her head quickly, strands of her blond hair falling in front of her face, "Feliks, you don't actually believe that, do you?"_

" _I…" Feliks trailed off, "I don't know what to believe, Iryna."_

" _Feliks, if they were relocating us because this is a war zone, then wouldn't they relocate everyone?"_

" _I know, I know!" Feliks exclaimed, closing his eyes, and sounding angrier than he wanted to, "I know I'm in danger, but what am I supposed to do about it? Leave?" He paused, giving Iryna a moment to reply, but she didn't. He continued, "Even if I wanted to leave I can't, I'm Jewish, I have no rights!"_

" _I wasn't suggesting for you to leave." Iryna stated after a moment of silence, "But I do think I can help you."_

 _Feliks stared into her desperate, indigo eyes, and sighed, "What do you have in mind?"_

 _Iryna smiled, "I can hide you in my house… I have a small room in my basement cellar that's hard to see at first glance. You can stay in my basement, and if any soldiers come to search my house then you can go into the cellar, then into that small room. You'd be well hidden."_

 _It was a tempting offer, but Feliks had to decline. He couldn't put Iryna in danger like that. What if they did find him? What would happen to her? Feliks shook his head, "I can't do that."_

" _I know staying in my basement for that long would—"_

" _No, it's not the basement, or the cellar, or even the small room in your cellar, it's…" Feliks tugged angrily at his blond hair, "I can't—I won't put you in danger like that!"_

" _Feliks, I'm not the one in danger."_

" _I don't care! I refuse to put you in danger just for me!" Feliks exclaimed in a whisper._

" _You're one of my only friends, Feliks. All of my other ones are back in Ukraine, and I lost contact with them." Iryna stepped closer, and grabbed Feliks by the hand, "Please let me help you, I don't want to lose you."_

 _Feliks could read the panic on her face. He was never good at reading people's emotions, but Iryna was pretty much an open book. Although watery, her eyes were wide, and jumped around the room, almost like she was searching for something to look at._

 _Feliks dropped his stare to his shoes, then up to his jacket, where he studied the Star of David that rested on his chest. He let out a tense, quivering sigh, trying to calm himself down. He didn't want to put Iryna in danger, but oh God, was her offer tempting. It was a safe place, a refuge, a place where he wouldn't be constantly eyed at by Nazi soldiers, or cursed at by other civilians._

 _Deciding his final answer, he gave Iryna's sweaty hand, that was still holding his, a reassuring squeeze, "Alright," Feliks said quietly, "I'll hide."_

 _Iryna smiled brightly, pulling Feliks into a hug, "Thank you, Feliks."_

 _Feliks laughed somewhat nervously, "Hey, I should be thanking you, you're… you're risking everything for me."_

" _It's no trouble, I want to help you," Iryna replied, pulling out of the hug, "you should head home, and get some of your most important things."_

 _Feliks nodded, deciding that he was only going to bring a few pairs of clothes. If he brought too many items, then it would be hard to hide it all if there was ever a Nazi search on the house. He stared at his studio, knowing that this is probably one of the last times he'll ever see it, his shop's probably going to be destroyed._

 _He looked back up to the Ukrainian woman, "Seriously, Iryna, thank you."_

" _You're welcome, Feliks."_

" _You should get going," Feliks started with a sigh, "I need to close up shop." He and Iryna both stood there awkwardly for a moment, before he walked out of his studio, giving it one last glance. There was nothing in his studio or in his house that he couldn't live without. He just wanted to close up shop, in a way of giving his entire career and life one final goodbye._

* * *

 **Translations:**

 _ **Cher (French)- Dear**_

 _ **Oui (French)- Yes**_

 **Wow. I am sorry for my random, unexpected inactivity. I'll be honest, my summer wasn't all that busy, I just never really opened my laptop to write. I guess I just ended up taking an unscheduled break? Anyway, I am very sorry for my entire summer of inactivity, but I must say that it feels great to be writing again. I tried to make this chapter as great as my writing skills will let it since I had like three months to write it. I'm going to try and get back into a normal writing cycle, but with my new classes and school year, I don't know how well that will work out. I'll keep you posted though. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, even if it's sad.**


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